Journey's End
by notesofwimsey
Summary: Finished: Danny's past is coming back to haunt him, threatening not only him, but the whole team and those they love. No one is safe. Continuation of It's a Long Journey Home. DL, SF, MacPeyton, HawkesOC, AdamOC. Rated M for adult content
1. Chapter 1: Beginning Again

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY. Poetry not otherwise referenced is original._

_A/N: This is a continuation of "It's A Long Journey Home". If you have not read that one, much of the back-story will not make sense. I happily respond to all reviews and PMs, so let me know what you think. _

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

Journeys' End

Journeys end in lovers' meeting

So says the poet and the song.

In summer's sighs and winter's greeting

Along the road friends travel on.

Though bends will twist and turn them back,

Though hills may rise and slow the way,

Still staunch companions they'll not lack

And endless night will turn to day.

For when the road seems oh so long

And home seems still a life away,

Again the poet sings that song

And lovers their sweet homage pay

To journey's start and journey's end

And strength of heart and love of friend.

SMT, April 1, 2007

Chapter 1: Beginning Again

"_Oh, God, Mac…"_

"_Lindsay, is that you? Are you all right?"_

"_He shot him, Mac."_

"_Lindsay, I can't hear you. What's wrong?"_

"_It's Danny. He's been shot."_

"_Mac? Are you there? Did you hear me?"_

"_What happened, Lindsay? "_

"_Ross Adams. He shot Danny. He's just come out of surgery."_

"_Danny has? Danny was in surgery?"_

"_Yes. Adams shot him in the back. Just like he shot Tricia. And Mark. He just shot him and Danny went down and I thought he was dead and I knew Adams was coming to get me but I thought I could get him to talk and he did; he told me what he had done, and then he was going to kill me but I shot him instead and he's dead and then Danny … Danny…"_

"_Lindsay, breathe. It's okay; just take a deep breath for me. Is there someone with you? Someone else I can talk to?"_

"_No, I'm sorry, Mac. I wanted to be the one who told you. I'm sorry, Mac. I'm so sorry…"_

"_Detective Taylor?"_

"_Agent Monroe. Thank God. What's going on?"_

"_Lindsay insisted on speaking to you, sir. What's that, Lindsay?"_

"_She said, 'Don't call him sir,' I'll bet."_

"_In fact, that's exactly what she said. Okay, Detective. Here's the story as far as we have. Ross Adams has been confirmed as the second shooter. He was also the step-son of former Sheriff Aaron Graham in Bozeman. Graham married his mother after the 'hunting accident' of her husband Rick Adams, a pretty bad guy from all accounts. There is strong suspicion that either Ross or Graham were involved in that accident."_

"_Nothing like keeping it in the family."_

"_Detective Evans saw Ross Adams, wearing the Drizabone coat, at the scene, but was persuaded by Sheriff Graham to ignore it. Evans was one of the officers shooting at Forbes; he may have felt pressure to support the shooting as justified. Anyway, Forbes pleaded guilty to all the shootings, so there was no trial."_

"_Then Forbes claimed to get his memory back."_

"_Right. Fast forward thirteen years. Forbes goes public with the claim that he wasn't alone. Adams has been working in the lab and feels pretty invulnerable."_

"_Until Lindsay comes back."_

"_And starts digging around, challenging the original evidence which he had carefully disordered."_

"_So that's the old case. How did my detective get shot after you promised me he was safe?"_

_A quick sigh over the phone line, "Just bad timing, Taylor. We got the story from Evans and Olafsen, using the help given by Dr. Hawkes at your end, and we went after Adams. Unfortunately, John McKim had gone after him first. I don't know whether they talked, or McKim just spooked him, but Adams pulled another hit and run. This time, he did it better."_

"_McKim?"_

"_In a coma, not expected to recover."_

"_I'm sorry, Agent Monroe. I know he was a friend of yours."_

"_Lindsay was more affected: they had been partners. He helped train her."_

"_What happened to Detective Messer?"_

"_Adams figured out where we'd stashed them. We didn't plan security for someone with his kind of computer access. He skied in; he was a biathlete, trained under McKim for a while. He caught Messer outside starting the truck; Lindsay had figured everything out. They were coming in when the bastard shot him in the back."_

"_What injuries?"_

"_Through and through, no vital organs hit, lots of blood loss. It would have been worse, but Messer hit the snow. The cold slowed down the bleeding. He … crawled to the cabin from where he fell." _

"_Yeah, that's Danny. Takes something to put him down and keep him down."_

"_In the mean time, Lindsay had set up Adams. She saw Messer get shot, assumed the worst, and found her tape recorder. She managed to keep Adams talking long enough to get a confession. Then he raised his rifle on her, and she shot him."_

_This time, the sigh was from New York, "She okay?"_

"_Not any more physically hurt than before we hid her. Luckily, we'd commandeered a chopper, landed just as she shot. For a minute …"_

"_Close call."_

"_You know it. We were able to transport Messer right away. The docs fixed him up, doped him good. Didn't stop him from trying to get up to go to Montana, though." For the first time, there was the hint of a laugh in John Monroe's voice._

"_Like I said, takes a lot to keep him down." _

"_We'll get them home to you, Mac. A little rattled, a little worse for wear, but they both are coming home."_

"_Thank you, Monroe. Tell Lindsay we're thinking about her, would you?"_

"_Will do."_

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-

"Mom."

"Lindsay, honey, he's okay. I talked to Chris; he's coming in to talk to you."

"It's my fault, Mom. I should have seen; I should have known. How could I let this happen?"

"Lindsay, listen to yourself. When were you supposed to know this? When you were sixteen, with a concussion, traumatized, terrified? Or now, when every piece of evidence had been tainted or ignored?"

"I should have known. I looked him in the eyes, Mom. He asked me."

"Who asked you what?"

"Ross. He asked me why I didn't know it was him. I saw his eyes in my dreams for thirteen years. How could I have thought he was Forbes? He was shorter, slighter. Those eyes. What kind of detective am I?"

"Lindsay. I will say this one more time and then I will never say it again, so listen up and listen good. You were sixteen years old. You watched four people get shot in front of you. You thought you were going to be killed next. Everyone around you conspired to keep the truth from coming out, whether they knew it or not. How dare you take responsibility for this?"

"Mom…"

"No. I can't listen to this any more, Lindsay. You know I love you. I would do anything to change this, anything to have kept this from happening. But you just keep putting yourself in the middle of this. You did nothing wrong. You had nothing to do with this. You were just there, Lindsay. You were just there."

"Listen to your mom, Montana."

"Danny!"

"Hey, Diane."

"Hey, Detective. Looks like you've had a bad day."

"Wakin' up to two beautiful women in my room? How bad could that be?"

"Amazing - they say the eyesight is the first to go. I think it's the sense of humour, myself. Let's get you something to drink; your throat is sore from the intubation. You'll need to cough: just be careful."

"Hey, Montana, you not talking?"

"Danny, I'm so sorry…"

"Didn't I tell you to listen to your mom? You have nothing to be sorry about. Adams?"

"Dead."

"She had no choice, Danny. She got him on tape, though, didn't you, Linds? So Forbes' story goes up in flames as well."

"Good."

"Go back to sleep, Danny. I'm not going anywhere."

"Make sure she gets some sleep and something to eat, Diane? She'll cripple herself in that chair."

"Go back to sleep, Detective Messer, and stop trying to charm the staff. I can look after my daughter for now."

Diane walked out of Danny's hospital room, looking for Ted. After nearly four decades together, she depended on him to keep her balanced. Her hands were clenched with the desire to tear something into small pieces: Ross Adams for choice.

"Too late," she reminded herself. "Lindsay took care of it. And John took care of Lindsay and now it is over. As over as it can be."

She knew it wasn't true. She had seen the nightmares lying dormant in Lindsay's eyes. But just for a minute. Just for a moment, she needed to believe that their lives could start again.

She walked into the waiting room and straight into Ted's comforting embrace, holding on to him, breathing in the rough scent of him: animals overlaid with soap. She breathed in the peace he offered, before turning to her sons.

"Thanks for being here, boys." She smiled a little wearily at her three sons. They always surprised her by their height, their age, their sheer presence. How, she sometimes wondered, could she have possibly caused their existence?

She sat down in the chair Jamie pulled out for her: her oldest, the one who took responsibility for everyone else. She put her hand on his cheek soothingly; he looked exhausted and worried. He had been the one to gather everyone together, picking up Ted at his office, finding Mick and bringing him to the hospital, driving out to the ranch to find clothes for Lindsay to change into when she was ready, offering to phone the New York office and explain why their detective was lying in the operating room.

Diane's eyes moved to John, the second child. He looked, as he so often did, withdrawn, even cold. He had politely refused to let Jamie phone Mac Taylor in New York: it was his job and he took it, as he did everything, seriously. He had efficiently done all that was required of him and more, gentling only when it came to Lindsay, standing with her when she insisting on talking to Detective Taylor herself, then taking the phone from her and interfering only when it became clear that she could speak no more. There was an anger burning deep in his eyes; only the people who loved him best would recognize it.

Mick, the youngest of the boys, handed her a Styrofoam cup, his easy smile and warmth enveloping her with as much comfort as the strong caffeine-laden kick of the coffee. His hair fell into his laughing brown eyes carelessly; his huge hands nearly obscured the cup. In spite of the seriousness of the situation, he watched the world always from behind a grin. He made her think of Puck: "Lord, what fools these mortals be" seemed to be his motto. Of all her children, Diane thought, he was the most casually loving.

She sipped the coffee, and closed her eyes. And Lindsay? Her youngest, always trying to keep up with the boys, always fighting to be on an equal footing. What had she passed over this past thirteen years in her desire to somehow prove she deserved to live when her friends had not? As if, Diane thought, she had to live five lives successfully instead of just her own.

"So how's Danny doing, Ma?" It was Mick who asked, of course.

"He's all right - flying on morphine and worrying about Lindsay at the moment. She's with him; I couldn't get her to leave. She needs to eat."

Jamie got up, "I'll run out and get her something. She won't want hospital food - I'll find her a sub or something."

"Get her chocolate," advise Mick. "She won't care about anything else."

"Such a stereotype. Not all women crave chocolate, you know." Diane scolded.

"No, but we're not talking about all women here. We're talking about Lindsay, aren't we? I'll go with you, Jamie." Mick's grin flashed through the hospital pall and the boys were gone.

"Can't sit still for a minute, either one," Ted grumbled, watching them a little longingly.

"Go," sighed Diane. "Bring me back some stereotypically female comfort food too, would you?"

He disappeared down the hall before she could do more than blow him a kiss.

"John, are you all right?" She turned to her son, focusing on the frown that marred his face.

As if self-conscious, John scrubbed his hands roughly over his cheeks, then put his head back against the wall, sighing. "Pissed off, mostly. If Taylor were a different kind of guy, he'd have torn a strip off me for Messer getting shot."

"It wasn't your fault," Diane flared up in defense of her cub.

"I didn't stop it either. Shit, Mom, I was hanging from a line off the chopper when I heard the shot. I was that close. I dropped the last eight feet because I heard it and all I could think was that I was too late." John's hands had started to shake, and he looked at them in amazement.

Diane said nothing, clasping her own hands tightly together to avoid reaching for her child. He was too old for that kind of comfort.

"Then I get within sight of the cabin and there's Messer, bleeding from who knows what, going through the door, and I think, 'Shit, not him too.' There's a trail of blood following him around the side of the cabin, but he's on his feet and he has his gun out." John swallowed. He had heard the howl of following coyotes over the helicopter engines.

"By the time I got into the cabin, they're wrapped in each other and Adams is stiffening on the couch. And all I can think is, 'It should have been me. She's my sister. I should have protected her.' I was angry, Mom," he looked at her with a worried frown. "I was angry that I hadn't been the one to shoot. Like it made a difference. Like it mattered who protected her. She was alive, unhurt, and I'm mad that it wasn't me who was the hero." He took in a deep breath, letting it out on a laugh.

"Of course, it wasn't Messer either. She did it all by herself."

John leaned forward, hands clasped between his knees, eyes closed. Diane watched him for a minute silently.

"When you were a little boy," she paused as he made an impatient gesture, then went on doggedly, "When you were a little boy, about seven years old, Lindsay was about three. Everywhere you went, she would tag along behind you. You used to get so mad, John, so impatient. You'd fly into a rage every time, and I'd tell you to wait: she'd grow up and not want to be with you all the time. We had to walk you to school, do you remember? Because she hated to be left behind that much?"

He nodded, looking down at his hands again.

"When she was a baby, we used to find you sleeping under her crib. You'd ignore her all day, complain when she cried or I needed to look after her. But every night, I'd find you under her crib with your blanket and pillow."

"I don't remember that."

"Do you remember when you boys had to walk her to preschool, and she was being bullied by that kid down the street … what was his name?"

"Martin," his voice was quiet.

"Yes, Martin, that's right. And the three of you decided to teach him a lesson. And what did Lindsay do?"

"Took on all three of us to protect Martin, then once we had left, kicked his ass all around the playground."

"Yes. She fights her own battles, John. Always has. Always will. And you know you're proud of her. And you know you're glad that Danny Messer won't have to protect her either. She would lose a part of herself if she had to depend on other people too much."

John sighed. "It's a good thing I don't have kids. How do you let go?"

Diane smiled at him a little wistfully, listening for her other two sons' voices down the hall.

"You don't. They just get too big for your arms to hold them as close as you want anymore."


	2. Chapter 2: Letting Go

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY. _

_A/N: Thanks so much to the people who are already reading and reviewing this story! I can't promise an update every day, but I will try to post new chapters as regularly as possible._

Chapter 2: Letting Go

Mac hung up the phone and dropped his head into his hands. He felt glued to the chair, unable to move, although he desperately wanted to tell someone about Danny, about Lindsay, to share this news with someone who would care as much as he did, would understand the helplessness he felt, would appreciate the restraint it had taken to not reach down into the phone and rip John Monroe in half for not protecting his people.

He gave himself a shake. Not helpful, any of that. Monroe had done his best. No one could get it right all the time. And Lindsay had done what she was trained to do. And Danny would recover. And he, Mac Taylor, NYPD, Detective First Class, had no place in this at all, and he'd better get used to that fact.

"Mac? Is everything all right?"

He looked up to see Peyton in the doorway, her eyes on him, a worried frown on her face. He held out a hand to her and she entered almost at a run, kneeling down beside his chair.

"What is it? What's happened?"

"Danny was shot in Montana, Peyton. He's just come out of surgery. They think he'll recover."

Peyton lost even the little colour she usually had. Her hands clenched on his as she asked in a hushed voice, "And Lindsay?"

"She shot Ross Adams. He found them in the backwoods safe house where they had been. He shot Danny in the back. She got the confession and then she shot him when he threatened her." Mac wondered how many times he would have to say that before it came more easily.

Peyton looked up at him, and impulsively kissed him on the cheek. "I'm so sorry, Mac. Do you want me to gather everyone together, so you can tell them all at once? Stella and Sheldon are here, Adam is on his way in, and Flack won't be hard to find. Shall I do that? Or do you want to talk to each one alone?"

Mac shied away from saying those words over and over again. "Once, definitely just once. Would you mind, Peyton? Just ask them all to meet me in the incident room we set up. We can put everything away now. I just … need a few minutes before I talk to them."

She nodded once, "What do you want me to tell them?"

"Just ask them to join me, if you could."

She kissed him again, briefly, and walked out. Mac watched her go, and his heart swelled with gratitude. She knew he would have to deal with this. She also knew how difficult he would find that. She knew him better than he knew himself, and for the second time in his life, he knew he was lucky beyond all deserving.

He pulled himself together, and went to the incident room they had set up only a few days ago, standing in front of the picture of sixteen year old Lindsay with the deadened eyes and the bruise on her head. "I hope you find some peace with this, Lindsay Monroe. I hope you can put it behind you now."

"Mac?"

He didn't have to turn around to know it was Stella, to hear the fear in her voice.

"Sit down, Stel. Let's wait for everyone. I can only say it once."

She didn't argue, always a bad sign, just sat in a chair as if her legs had given out.

Hawkes, Adam, and Flack all filed in after Peyton a minute or two later, and without a word took up their positions around the room. They were solemn and tense, and Mac hated that he had let them all get the impression that the news was the worst that could be imagined. Still, he had to clear his throat before he could get the words out.

"First of all, they are both okay. Danny was shot, but came through surgery and looks to make a full recovery. Lindsay had to kill Ross Adams, but it looks like it will be ruled a good shoot."

Everyone relaxed a fraction, as their visions of dress blues and twenty-one gun salutes faded.

"How the hell did Danny get shot? I thought Monroe had them in a secure location?" It was Flack who asked, always the cop, looking out for the case.

Mac explained the story John Monroe had given him, trying not to interpret anything or add his opinions on how things had been handled. Every time he said Ross Adams' name, Adam winced a little.

Stella stood up, and ripped Lindsay's picture off the bulletin board, running a finger over the youthful face before putting the photo in the case file. "Well, at least she took care of the problem. I can't believe that little weasel shot Danny."

Hawkes looked up at Mac, who was still standing in front of the board which Stella was dismantling and packing away, her gestures sharp and hurried.

"Any idea when he'll be back? Or the prognosis?"

Mac shook his head wearily, "She phoned me literally as he was being wheeled into the ICU, Hawkes. They only knew the basics."

"Want me to call, talk to the doctor?"

Mac's eyes lit with relief, "Dr Chris Martens. He's a friend of the family, so you may be able to push a little."

Hawkes nodded and walked out quietly, saying, "I'll let Sid and others know, too."

Adam stood up as well, "I have some tests to run. If you need anything, if I can do anything …" his voice tailed off as he turned to go.

"Adam," Mac stopped him for a moment. "Thank you for your help."

The lab tech ducked his head and blushed as he left the room.

Stella had finished with the board, and looked around the room with a sigh. "I can't believe it's over. I feel a little lost … usually we get to see the case through to the end."

"It's not our responsibility this time, Stella. We'll have to trust the system, even in Bozeman."

She snorted her distrust of the system which had conspired to protect a killer and obscure an open case. Corruption, blindness, or pure, pigheaded stupidity aside, she couldn't see trusting a system so flawed that it had allowed this to happen.

"What now, Mac? We just wait for them to come home?" Stella paced around the room, too keyed up to sit still. She wanted to do something: to help in some way. If she could have flown under her own power to Montana, she would have been out the door by now.

"Lindsay's family are all there. They'll do whatever is necessary."

Stella stopped dead in the centre of the room, a sudden dread filling her. "What about Danny's family? Who's going to tell them?"

Mac and Don looked at each other for a full minute. Finally, Don sighed and dropped his head. "I'll tell them."

"Are you sure, Don? Mac, shouldn't it be you?" Stella didn't understand the unspoken conversation between the two men, but she knew there was more to this than either was telling her.

"Thank you, Flack. I would appreciate it, and I think Danny will too." Mac turned away towards the window, clearing his throat again as he did.

"I'll get details from Hawkes and go as soon as I can." Flack stood up, a certain wariness already showing in his eyes.

Mac just nodded, his back still to the three people in the room, scanning the New York skyline. At least from this window, he couldn't see the gaping hole of the missing Twin Towers. Usually, he tried to avoid looking out the windows at work.

"I'll come with you, Don," Stella said it slowly, her eyes not leaving Mac as she followed Flack out of the room.

Mac braced a hand on the wall and slumped against it for a moment, only straightening up when he heard Peyton's soft voice.

"Is there anything I can do, Mac?"

"Not really, Peyton. You've helped just by being here. Thank you." He turned to face her, finally feeling that he had his emotions under control. As soon as he looked into her eyes, though, he realized his mistake.

"Oh Mac," she whispered as she put her arms around him, "None of this was your fault, or John Monroe's, or anyone else's. If you want to hate someone, hate Ross Adams or Justin Forbes. But it's over. And you have to let some of this go."

Mac buried his head in Peyton's shoulder, taking strength from her. She was right, and he knew that. But it was not so easy for him to let go of his anger, or to let someone else deal with a case he felt so personally outraged by.

He thought back to the conversation he had had with Peyton in his home only a few days ago. He hadn't meant to lie to her, but he had. He had let her think that his feelings for Danny were just those of any officer to a man under his command. But he had hand picked Danny, stuck by him in spite of advice to the contrary, seen him through more than one trauma. The thought of his protégé lying in a hospital bed in Montana and not being able to do anything about it roiled in his gut.

Peyton stepped back first, "Come on, Mac. Let's go and get something to eat. You need a few minutes out of this place."

Mac took her hand in his, allowing her to draw him out of the room without comment. They were in the elevator before he pulled her closer and said quietly, "Come home with me tonight."

Peyton looked down at her feet for a moment before meeting his eyes with hers. "Why?"

Mac recalled some advice he had given Danny only a few days ago, although it felt more like months. "Women need to hear it, especially if you screwed up. They need to hear it over and over again."

"Because I care about you, and I want you in my life. I want you all the way in my life, with no closed doors or empty rooms. Can you trust me enough to work through this with me?"

Peyton's only answer was a sweet smile and a tender kiss.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-

_Pain. He could feel the pain radiating through his chilled body. It was hot, like lava flowing across an ice-field. It bubbled up through him, pulsing through his veins, burning back the ice that encased him. He almost welcomed it, seeking it out, tracing its path through his body. Anything was better than that frozen numbness, that chilled sensation that his heart had stopped beating, that his blood no longer flowed. Even pain was preferable to that._

"_Pain? Ya' like the pain, doncha' Messer? It's what you're best at. Giving it anyway. Ya' thought ya'd be the hero here, didn'cha? Ya' thought you could make her love you by saving her life. Ya' screwed up again. Ya' ain't no hero, that's for damn sure. Ya' ain't no Marine, no Lieutenant Mac Taylor. Ya' just a fuckup from Staten Island, and no matter what ya' do, ya' ain't never gonna be nothing else."_

"Detective Messer? I'm just going to up your morphine drip. You really shouldn't be feeling any pain even at these levels. Detective? Are you all right? Ah!"

"I'm sorry, Nurse. Danny? Danny! It's okay; I'm here. She's not going to hurt you. You need more morphine, Danny. Let go of her; I won't let anything happen to you."

"No morphine."

"What's that?"

"No morphine."

"Detective Messer, you need to have something to control the pain. Your body can't deal with too much; you need your energy for healing."

"Danny, listen to me. You know I won't let anything happen. I promise. Hold my hand. I'll stay. I won't leave. Let the nurse do what she needs to."

And he was under again, taken by the frozen fog, lost in the cavernous ice, wandering alone. The only thing he could feel was Lindsay's hand in his.


	3. Chapter 3: Reaching Out

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY._

_A/N: I love my reviewers, and all those who are reading along. I'm sorry I'm not posting quite as fast as I did before; this story is coming at me in odd directions and it is taking a little while to put it together! Bear with me, please! _

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

Chapter 3: Reaching Out

Flack and Stella found Hawkes in the lab, on webcam with Dr. Martens in Montana. As they came closer, they heard Hawkes saying, "Thanks, doctor. If you wouldn't mind sending me copies of the files, I know the team here would feel better. We are naturally concerned."

Chris frowned, but mustered up a smile, "Look, Dr. Hawkes, I know we might not have impressed you up there in the big city, but I can assure that we generally don't lose patients. Especially ones who are important to us. Everyone here is as invested in seeing Detective Messer on his feet as you guys there could be, for Lindsay's sake if not for his own."

"I'm sorry if it sounded like a issue of trust, Dr. Martens. It's not that at all. It's just been a difficult time for our team, and we'd like to be kept in the know. That's all."

Stella thought it would be hard for anyone not to be disarmed by Hawkes' obvious sincerity. Not for the first time, she wondered why a man so sweet and honest seemed to have no one more special in his life than his mother.

Chris nodded crisply and said, "I understand. I'll see that copies of all relevant files are sent to you at the lab. We are having one problem with Detective Messer at the moment, though. I wonder if I could ask your advice?"

"Of course."

"He's refusing morphine. I know that probably has something to do with Lindsay's overdose – he was the one who discovered her seizing – but he's not rational enough to discuss this. We've had to up his dose twice to control his pain responses and he's exhibited signs of extreme distress each time. Is there any alternative you can suggest?"

As the medical professionals discussed pain medications and methods of delivery, Stella and Don waited as patiently as possible. Finally the two doctors signed off, all signs of distrust seemingly, for the moment at least, buried.

"What can I tell the Messer family, Hawkes?"

Hawkes took a look at the strain around Flack's eyes and immediately diagnosed a headache brought on by the thought of having to be the unwelcome bearer of bad news. Casually, he reached for a bottle of acetaminophen and tossed it to the detective, following it with a bottle of water.

"You get the short stick?"

"Naw, volunteered." Flack shrugged when Hawkes cocked an eyebrow inquisitively at him. "They don't like me much, but they hate Mac. He'd 'a done it, but it would 'a hurt like hell."

"Why not ask Father Tony to come with you?" Stella interjected without thinking. "He's good with this sort of thing."

Don had just tossed a couple of pills in his mouth and choked on the water he was washing them down with. Water spewed out of his mouth and nose as he tried to catch his breath. Stella rushed to him, patting his back, while Hawkes grabbed a box of tissues and thrust them at him to mop up.

"Bad thought?" Hawkes deadpanned.

"You have NO idea!"

"Why?" Stella looked from one to the other in confusion.

Flack took her hand, "I need you to trust me here, Stel. Remember when we had lunch with Danny, and I told you I knew some things about his family even he doesn't know I know?"

Stella worked through that sentence for a few seconds, then nodded her head.

"Well, I can't tell you what I know, okay? There are too many layers here to cut through, but it's a matter of trust. On all kinds of levels."

Stella stood back on her heels, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. She was prepared to do a lot of things to help her friends or even to satisfy her own curiosity, but push someone to betray his sense of trust was not one of them. She nodded once and did not miss Flack's deep sigh of relief.

Hawkes stepped in at that point, giving Flack a quick overview of the information Dr. Martens had passed on. "Bottom line," he finished up, noticing the impatience in Flack's eyes, "He'll remain in hospital at least another week, be off work for another month. But he should recover."

Flack nodded sharply, "I'd better get this over with then."

"So I guess I can't come with you?" Stella said, quiet but resigned.

"I wish you could - you have no idea. But it would not be a good plan."

"Can I come with you and wait in the car?"

Flack looked into her green eyes, filled with a pained hope, and much against his better judgment, nodded. "You have to stay in the car, though, okay? I don't want them to see you."

Stella's eyes went blank, and Flack cursed himself. "Said too much, you idiot." She just nodded though.

They drove out to Staten Island without speaking much, fighting the bridge traffic to a soundtrack of beeping horns and swearing New Yorkers. Stella tried a few conversational gambits, but nearly every topic she brought up was met with silence, or at best a polite request to repeat herself, so she gave up. Travel through the city and out to the boroughs was never smooth, but she felt the weight of Don's concern. She shouldn't have pushed her way into this, she knew.

The Messers lived in the heart of Little Italy on the Island, not that that was hard. One in three Staten Islanders still supported Italy in the World Cup, and soccer was still futbol to most of them. The year before, when Italy had taken the Cup, the local police had participated in the celebratory riot with cheerful anarchy. Officers from the other boroughs had been put on stand-by in case things got out of control.

Flack cruised the streets slowly. He'd been here before, but he was in no hurry to repeat the experience. Finally, he pulled to the curb and parked in front of a neighbourhood grocery store.

"You need to stay here, Stella." His voice brooked no argument.

"Danny's parents work here?"

"No. I can't pull up in front of their place. Don't ask, okay? I could be a while."

He thought dispiritedly, "Or I could be back in under a minute."

Stella nodded, crossing her arms and chewing her lip. "Can I get out?"

Flack sighed. Like she'd stay if he said no. "Please don't follow me. And please don't investigate, okay? You can shop."

Stella nodded again. She really didn't mean to go against Flack in this. She could prove she was worthy of his trust. She could curb her curiosity.

For a while, at least.

Flack walked away from the car without looking back. He was determined to trust Stella.

At least until he couldn't.

As he neared the small neat apartment building he had been to only twice before, he steeled himself for the encounter. This promised to be moderately unpleasant. Unlike the first time, when he had come with a summons in his hand, or the last time, when he had come to inform the family of Louie's disastrous attempt to save Danny, this time, he comforted himself, his news was cautiously optimistic.

Not that he expected to be any more welcome.

In spite of the winter chill, there were plants in small pots sitting in the window on the third floor, which had a southern exposure and lots of sunshine. Basil, oregano, mint, a couple of types of thyme: Mrs. Messer's kitchen garden until the spring.

He flashed his badge at a young woman coming out of the building, who held the door open for him, which at least meant he wouldn't be refused at the intercom. He climbed the stairs, the elevator being out of order. A fly-specked, yellowed notice to that effect on the elevator door proved that was not unusual. When he arrived, he knocked firmly on the apartment door, noting that it had been freshly painted, then stepped back so that the person peering at him from the security peephole could see his face properly before opening the door.

"Detective."

"Mrs. Messer."

She had not changed much since the first time he had shown up on her doorstep, a nervous rookie following his more experienced partner, Gavin Moran, around like an overgrown puppy. Her hair was still black, perhaps a little too black to be natural. Her eyes, like his own, were a deep blue, with long, black lashes, signifying the northern Italian roots of her family. She had the type of ageless beauty that comes from confidence and good bone structure: her cheekbones were high and delicately curved; her lips full and lush. She stood tall and secure, wrapping silence around her like a shield, like a sword.

She did not invite him in, standing in the doorway, guarding the threshold against intrusion.

"I'm sorry to disturb you. Is Mr. Messer in?

She looked at him with derision. "Middle of the day? Ya' think he has time to sit around the house in the middle of the day?" Her voice, as always, was cool and pitched low. It should have been attractive.

Flack shrugged, "I wanted to tell you that Danny has been injured. He was shot, but he's out of surgery and should make a full recovery."

"Where is he? Which hospital?"

"In Montana, at Bozeman Deaconess Hospital. Here," he offered her a card, which she took with a small grimace of displeasure, being careful not to let her fingers touch his. "This is the name of his doctor and the phone number of the hospital. My number's on there too, if you or Mr. Messer have any questions."

The look of distaste deepened when Flack mentioned her husband again.

"Why would we have any questions?"

Flack shrugged, disgusted, and turned to go. "You even know he was in Montana?" he flung over his shoulder.

"You say hi to your daddy for me, won't you?" she responded sardonically, before slamming the door.

Flack froze for a moment, struggling for control. Then, slowly, he walked back to the car, casually checking for disturbances. When he came around the corner, he saw without surprise that Stella was not sitting in the front seat where he had left her. He leaned up against the car, waiting for her.

"Hey, Flack. Wha'cha doin' out in the boonies?"

It was a skinny runt of a kid who sidled up to him, speaking out of the side of his mouth like a Saturday afternoon matinee gangster.

"Mouse? I thought you'd be dead by now, man."

"Yeah, well, it's been tried."

"Guess it's hard to kill off the rodents. What's that they say - build a better Mouse trap ...?"

"Ha ha, look at the funny man. What's going down in these parts that would interest you?"

"Private business. Nothin' to do with anyone. Got that, Mouse? Nothin'." Flack's eye went ice cold, and the skinny kid backed up slowly.

"Hearing's 20/20, man. Just chill, 'kay? Thought you might like to know something, that's all."

"From you, Mouse? Inner city squeaking not what it used to be?"

"Hey man, no skin off my teeth if you don't want it. Someone'll slip me a bill for it."

Sighing, Flack took a twenty out of his wallet, and held it enticingly between his fingers. "C'mon, Mouse. Share."

The teenager crept a little closer. "Sassone's got a brother." His trembling hand snatched at the money. Flack's hand closed up tight.

"We know that, punk. He's banged up alongside his big bro and the rest of the Tangled-Up boys."

The teen wiped his nose with the back of his hand. "Naw, not that one. An older one. A cop one."

Flack stuck his hand in his pocket and snorted derisively. "You've blown what's left of your brains out your nose, man. Nice _not_ doing business with you."

The kid grabbed Flack's arm as he turned to get in his car. Flack froze and simply stared at the grubby hand wrinkling his sleeve before turning the ice of his glare to the thin face with the jumpy eyes.

Mouse dropped his hand as if he had been burned, but persisted. "Straight up, man. He's a Fed or something. Changed his name, but he's out there. And something's going down. Why would I lie?" He smiled ingratiatingly, showing his brown broken teeth like a threat.

Flack slipped the twenty back in his wallet, and pulled out a ten. He held it out. "I get more, you get more."

He didn't even see the money leave his hand, just felt the breeze as Mouse scuttled away.

"Don? Everything okay?"

He turned to see Stella with two bags of groceries standing on the sidewalk by the car. He grinned at the sight, "Well, I did tell you to go shopping, didn't I?"

"Hey, my retail therapy is your dinner of Penne Pollo Pomodoro, so just sit back and enjoy, would you?"

He opened the back door for her to put the bags in, then wrapped his arms around her waist and took her mouth in a searing kiss.

She responded as always, heat rising so fast she could barely keep her feet on the ground. When he finally ended the kiss, he rested his forehead on hers for a moment.

She ran her fingers through his hair, and said with a teasing grin, "I wonder what it says about your past that you always want to ravish me up against your car!"

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-

"_Don't. Please don't. I'll be good. I promise. Please don't close the door."_

"_Whiny little brat. Pissing yourself because of the dark! If I had to be saddled with another little shit, did it have to be one who's afraid of everything? Why can't you be like your brother? He's not afraid of anything. You're useless. Useless."_

"_Ah, mio bambino, sh, sh, sh. Quello piccolo, è calmo. Siete sicuri. Niente li nuocerà."_

"_You stupid old woman. Shut the fuck up and leave the kid alone. No wonder he's such a baby. Get out of here. I mean it – get the hell out of here. If I had my way, I'd send you back to Sicily with all the other stupid old bitches to mutter and pray yourself to death."_

"_Siete diabolica. Il dio di maggio ha misericordia sulla vostra anima,_

_dato che certamente non."_

"_Stop with the fucking Italian, you old witch. You're in the States now - speak English! Danny, get into bed and shut the fuck up. Or the next time, it'll be the closet." _

"_Sarà migliore, il mio bambino. È soltanto l'alcool che la incita a parlare così."_

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-

_A/N: There is Italian in this story. It will often not be translated, though, because it's a 'secret' language, which will make much more sense in later chapters (or if you read the previous story carefully). Of course, I can't stop readers from translating it themselves – LOL – but a little patience may be a good thing!_


	4. Chapter 4: Holding On

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY._

_A/N: Thanks so much to all the people who have been in touch to let me know what is working for you in this story. In spite of this chapter, it will be a "team" story, so everyone will show up in some way. I'm calling it a 'flotilla' story, because there are so many 'ships sailing at once! _

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

Chapter 4: Holding On

"_Il dio lo protegge da tutti che cerchino di fare il danno a me."_

"Danny? I'm here, Danny. It's all right. I'm here."

"Lindsay, you need to go to sleep yourself. You look like a ghost sitting there. Have you eaten anything?"

"I'm fine, Chris. Jamie brings me food every hour and when he isn't in trying to stuff me with sandwiches, Mick is sneaking in with coffee and chocolate. I just want Danny to wake up properly. Can you reduce the morphine he's on? It upsets him."

"I talked to Sheldon Hawkes. Do you know if Messer has a sensitivity to morphine?"

"How would I know that? He's never been hospitalized that I know of."

"Well, it might explain why it isn't helping him. We're changing him to a different pain medication; hopefully it will control the pain and reduce the agitation."

"Chris, is he going to be okay? Are you sure?"

"Honey, as long as he doesn't get an infection, and stays as quiet as possible for the next couple of days to let everything start to heal up, then yes, I think he will be okay."

"Thank God."

"What about you?"

"Me? I'm fine."

"Oh Lindsay, don't. In the past week, you've been shot at, hit by a truck, overdosed with morphine, watched him get shot, had to kill someone else, and have been sitting with John McKim every minute you're not in here."

"Well, yeah, you can make anything _sound_ bad."

"Lindsay, you need to talk to someone. If not me, fine, but someone. You can't keep this up."

"Yes, actually. I can. Just as long as I have to."

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-

Danny's eyes flickered. He could hear voices speaking, see people moving around him. He reached out a hand, a little frantically. "Lindsay? Where's Lindsay?"

"Detective Messer. Good, you're awake."

"Where's Lindsay?"

"She's just gone to see Officer McKim for a minute. She'll be right back."

Danny blinked his eyes furiously. He couldn't see anything clearly, and was startled and ashamed to feel tears run down the sides of his face. Shakily, he raised a hand to wipe them away before anyone noticed, but winced when the IV inserted in the vein in the back of his hand came into contact with his face. He dropped his hand, defeated.

"Who are you?" He knew he sounded ungracious.

"It's Cindy. Do you remember me? I was one of Detective Monroe's nurses?"

"Mmm. How long have I been out?"

"The doctor will be coming to speak to you in a few minutes, and he'll tell you everything." Cindy's voice was professionally soothing, and Danny was fed up. He grabbed her hand and held on.

"How long was I out?" Each word ground out between his teeth.

She stilled and answered him quietly, "Fifteen hours. You've been unconscious for about fifteen hours. You're hurting me, Detective."

Once more ashamed, Danny dropped her hand and turned his head away. "I'm sorry," he said gruffly.

"The doctor will be here in a minute." Her voice remained cool.

"Unforgiven," thought Danny, resigned.

"I have to check your dressing."

"Whatever," he sighed and closed his eyes. He'd lost fifteen fucking hours. And Lindsay had had to do it all alone: deal with the cops, with the Feds, with McKim. His stomach tightened at the thought of McKim. He wondered just how much comforting the former partner had been doing. He gasped as Cindy touched his side: no amount of medicine could control that kind of pain.

"I'm sorry, Detective. I have to check the exit wound. Can you roll over?"

At least this time she really did sound sorry.

Danny rolled over with her help, not bothering to try to hide the tears. Fuck, he hated feeling this weak, this dependent. He was cath'ed, IV'd, doped, and humiliated.

And Lindsay was with McKim.

Cindy helped him roll back, then wiped his face with a warm cloth.

This time, when he reached out to grab her hand, he was consciously gentle. "I am sorry."

"It's okay, Detective. You can have a full sponge bath later, I promise."

"Forgiven," he thought, with a hint of a grin.

She left the room, meeting the doctor just outside. They had a quick conversation, which Danny didn't even attempt to listen in on. Without his glasses, all his senses seemed a little foggy. That whole theory about losing one sense making the others stronger was a pile of crap as far as he could tell. He just lay in the crib-like bed, sides up to keep him from rolling over and falling out of bed, wires and tubes monitoring and controlling his basic bodily functions, consciousness floating somewhere above the tight ball of pain that was his body, and felt thoroughly, pathetically, disgustingly sorry for himself.

"So, Danny, how are you feeling today? Well, since it's after midnight, I guess I should say tonight." Chris Martens' cheerful voice rammed through Danny's head like a bus through a store window.

"Just peachy, Doc. How soon can I get outta here?" That was better; his voice was cool and flippant. No one needed to know his toes ached from clenching his feet instead of his fists.

Chris looked down at him with a laugh in his eyes. "Well, let's give you a couple more days, okay? You took a bullet through the abdomen. Luckily it didn't hit anything vital. You lost a lot of blood, and made things considerably worse by crawling to the cabin."

Danny shook his head, "I don't remember."

"I'll leave that story for someone else to tell, then. I can tell you that medically speaking you were fucking lucky. The snow helped slow the blood loss, which meant you didn't die on the scene. I don't know why you didn't bleed out before you got here, but you didn't. The wound was clean, although there are some signs of a minor infection, which we will treat immediately. You came through the surgery well, but suffered some complications from the morphine. We've changed your medication to pethidine, which may not give you the same reactions. As soon as we can, we'll drop you to acetaminophen or aspirin."

Danny shook his head, "Too much, Doc. I can't follow you." His brow was furrowed with frustration, his hands shaking with concentration.

"He needs his glasses, Chris." Lindsay said quietly. She came around the curtain, and reached for Danny's glasses on the table beside his bed. Gently, she put them on him, smoothing her hands down his cheeks, and tried to move away. Danny's hand reached for hers and held on desperately.

"Okay, let's back up to essentials then. You should make a full recovery. It will take some time, but the damage done should heal."

Danny heard Lindsay's sigh of gratitude, and felt the relief flood through him. He held it in, though, asking, "How soon can I get back to work?"

Chris rolled his eyes, "Another couple days in hospital, then you should take at least five weeks off work. You've had major surgery, Detective. Rushing things at this stage will slow your recovery, not speed it up."

"But I'll recover? Fully? I can go back to work?"

"Eventually, yes. Not right away. I'll be talking to your captain, Detective. No rushing this."

"Yeah, yeah, I heard you, Doc. Thanks. Thanks a lot."

"I'll talk to you later, and see how the pethidine is working for you. Lindsay, you need to go home and get some rest, or I'll be booking you back in here next."

"Go away, Chris. Thank you." Her voice was polite and steady, but her eyes, locked with Danny's, were stormy.

Shaking his head, the doctor left the room and closed the door.

"I thought you were dead." It came out of her in a sigh, cold and remote.

"I thought you were next. I thought he would shoot you."

"I don't ever want to feel like that again."

"I'm sorry, Lindsay. I wanted to protect you. You didn't need me. You did it all yourself."

"Danny, I need you. I always needed you. I'm just so afraid of something going wrong. I can't deal with things going wrong."

Their voices murmured over and around each other, neither one fully hearing the other: hands clasped, eyes locked. She moved forward first, laying her mouth on his in an attempt to reconnect, give comfort, share warmth.

The blaze of heat shocked them both. There was little of comfort there: just an edgy, almost painful need.

Lindsay drew back, knees weak, finding her chair again blindly. "I don't know what to do about this, Danny."

"I'm not sure there's anything we can do. Why were you with McKim?"

"Smooth, Messer," that voice was back, the one that monitored his every thought and move, only to constantly point out his failings. "Just go on the attack. That's the way to deal with feelings too big to control."

He saw Lindsay's eyes grow big with shock, then narrow, and steeled himself for the blow-up he knew he deserved. He had no rights to her exclusive attention. He could see she hadn't slept; Chris' words still echoed in his head. He had no right to question how she spent her time. He started to speak, to take back what he had said, but it was too late. When she pulled her hand out of his, he dropped it to the bed, clenched.

Lindsay put her head in her hands and answered him with a cold weariness that tore at him, "John wasn't as lucky as I was, Danny. Ross ran him over. He's in a coma, and not expected to live."

"Fuck. Oh fuck it. Lindsay, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Danny's mind went blank with disbelief. All he could think of was Lindsay's grief and, he knew, guilt. He wanted to put his arms around her and protect her from anything else that could hurt her ever, but he couldn't even sit up, could hardly move with the monitors and tubes tying him to the bed. He had never felt so helpless in all his life.

"You couldn't know. He went to talk to Ross this morning – well – I guess yesterday morning. John thinks he might have spooked Ross into going after us, but he must have already worked out where we were. Turns out Ross had been monitoring the Monroes for years, keeping tabs on things. When the Feds raided his house, he had computer files on all of us. I guess with John in the FBI and me in the police, he knew we could be a danger to him."

Lindsay took a deep breath. As long as she could concentrate on the case, she could keep talking. As long as she didn't look Danny in the eyes again.

But when he reached out his hand for hers again, she couldn't deny the comfort it gave, and held on gratefully. Surreptitiously, she moved her fingers to monitor his pulse, as if to assure herself that he was staying with her.

"McKim showed up at Ross's house early. No one knows whether they spoke or not. No one knows what McKim had on Ross that led him there. Did he know more about this than people thought? I get why he didn't go to Evans or Olafsen: Evans was involved in the cover up, and Olafsen just went along with things he was told. But I don't know what was going on in McKim's head, Danny. If I'd been here, if I hadn't taken off, he could have talked to me. We might have figured it out."

Her eyes were full of tears now, but Lindsay would not let them fall. She had failed again, and that failure had cost yet another friend his life.

Danny blew out a breath he didn't know he had been holding. How like Lindsay to take this on herself. He could feel her going under, drowning in the guilt. "Lindsay. Lindsay? Listen to me. McKim made choices. We can't know why he made the ones he did. But he had a right to make those choices. And I don't think he would want you to take any responsibility for them. He cared about you, Lindsay. That much was obvious. He'd hate the thought that you were carrying this."

Lindsay squeezed his hand, and didn't answer. She was seeing John McKim's blank face, eyes closed, respirator breathing for him. Even when Danny had been unconscious, she had felt his presence in the room, an angry, impatient restlessness. When she sat beside McKim, she felt nothing. She knew he had gone; only his body remained tied to the machines.

"The undead," she thought with a shudder, and tightened her grip on Danny, vital and alive.


	5. Chapter 5: Networking

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY._

_A/N: So, I had some requests for Adam to have a special someone, but come on – he can't have a "usual" relationship! Let me know what you think!_

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

Chapter 5: Networking

To: Aisha Blanco

From: Adam RossSubject: Long WeekHey!

Yeah, so remember I was telling you about those two friends of mine, out in Montana? She's from there originally, and he went out – well – I guess he went out for her. She was in trouble – big trouble – and he couldn't sit back in NYC any longer. He's been like totally into her for months, you know? I don't know what happened but a few months ago she just shut off and he went all quiet and shit. Then she got called back home and I guess things went bad and he rides to the rescue.

So anyway, they end up in like witness protection Wild West style in a little cabin in the woods, like made of log or something, real old pioneer stuff, you know, and this guy skis in, shoots my buddy in the back, then goes after her again, for good this time.

She shot him. Just up and shot him dead. But not before she gets him confessing to two murders 13 years ago, on tape yet! Shit, she's amazing.

So my buddy's been shot in the back and he crawls to the cabin for – I don't know – like twenty yards or something and gets to the cabin just as she takes care of business. And then the Feds drop out of the sky like in some movie or something.

Man, I wish I'd seen that. Except for the whole blood thing. I can only handle blood in the lab. When Mac started sending me out in the field, I thought it would be pretty cool, you know? But I still like the lab best.

Weird though – the guy who did this? His name was Ross Adams. How creepy is that? I keep looking over my shoulder every time someone says his name.

C Y Saturday?

A

send

"Adam. Where are we with that trace?"

"Oh … ah … Doc, we got nothing we didn't have before. Trace came back to paraffin wax on the jacket." Blushing furiously, Adam minimized the email programme he'd had up, waiting for a response.

"Like candle wax?" Hawkes reached out a hand for the results.

"Umm, more like canning wax? You know – like on homemade jams? It's used for sealing the food? The trace is compatible with wax used for food preparation – candles are more likely to have dye or perfume added." Adam flushed when Hawkes queried him with a raised eyebrow.

"If you look," he rushed on, a little breathlessly, "You can see that the traces are on the lapels of the jacket? Like maybe the wax was on someone's hands and they grabbed him? Smudged, though. No prints, although you'd think that there would be something in the impressions in the wax, but it's smooth. I haven't tried yet for epithelials or skin trace, but I guess there could be if the wax got warm enough to melt so no fingerprints showed … you'd think that there would be some trace then from the oils on their hands or something …"

Adam's voice trailed off as Hawkes was obviously no longer paying attention, tapping the folder Adam had given him against one hand as he rapidly ran down his mental list of suspects. "She said she was home all day, though. Maybe he came home a little unexpectedly."

Adam looked on, confused, "What? Who?"

Hawkes smacked him with the folder. "Thanks, man. This should get me a warrant, anyway. Let's see what Mac says. Nice work."

Adam shrugged as Hawkes walked quickly away, "You're welcome? So, you want me to test for biological trace …?"

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-

Stella tried to keep quiet as Flack braved the afternoon bridge traffic again, but finally, after sitting in a line up for a good fifteen minutes, couldn't keep it in any longer.

"Don. Don?" She waited until he had glanced over at her. "Was that Mouse I saw you talking to?"

"Shit," Flack thought. Briefly, he considered lying, but really he knew better than that. They'd worked together a long time before they started seeing each other, which really had only been a couple of days. "I forgot you knew him."

"Yeah, well, he's a little hard to forget, especially if you've ever been stuck in an interrogation room with him. His smell is permanently etched on my visceral memory," she said wryly. "Was he selling something? Anything good?"

Flack frowned and answered slowly, "I don't know. But I'm thinking I need to talk to Mac, at least. And maybe …"

Stella waited impatiently as Flack stopped talking, sunk in thought, then prodded him, "Maybe what? Are you going to tell me what he said?"

Flack shot a look at her, "Trust. It's all about trust," he thought again. "I trusted her as an investigator long before I started looking at her as a girlfriend. Plus, she'll kick my ass if she figures out I'm trying to keep anything hidden here."

"Yeah. He said Sonny Sassone has another brother, an older one. Changed his name and is a Federal agent."

Stella sat back, and blew a hard breath out, "No way."

Flack shrugged, "Louie Messer has a brother on the NYPD."

Stella started to argue, opened her mouth to do it, then closed it again. "Yes. Yes, he does."

She sat silent for a few minutes, then sat up and shook her head, "No way. No way. These days, getting into the FBI is nearly impossible without records going back to the Mayflower. You don't just waltz in with no history, no background. Even a hinky family member can keep you out."

"Backgrounds can be paid for." His voice was quiet, thoughtful, though not yet convinced. This was familiar, this to and fro of discussing a case, building on each other's information and, yes, instincts, though it was better not to use that word around Mac.

"Who is going to pay for something this big? Tanglewood? I know they were vicious, Don, but I don't see them having this kind of brain power behind them. I mean Sonny was a thug, a punk. His little brother was muscle through and through, especially in the brain department. This would take an organization."

"Yeah. Like the Mafia. I mean the real Mafia. Old-school."

His voice remained calm, but Stella could hear him thinking. He had his own history and background, and it was impressive, Stella knew, especially considering his age. But that was because he also had access to the collective Flack family memory: both his father and grandfather had dealt with many of the same families in some of these gangs. Together, Don had a breadth of knowledge on New York City crime that rivaled anyone's.

"So we go to Mac." It wasn't a question.

"Well, we start there. Then we see where this leads us."

She sat quiet for a minute longer, then grabbed his arm. "Danny. You think this has something to do with Danny?"

Don hunched his shoulders, but did not remove her hand. "He goes out to Montana, and meets the FBI agent brother of the woman he's in love with, a woman who just happens to be a New York CSI? Then we get told that a Mafia family, with deeply personal connections to the Messers, has someone planted in the FBI? You know what they say about coincidences, Stella? It feels wrong."

"You know what Mac says about feelings, don't you?"

"I don't answer to Mac. I'm allowed to follow my gut on an investigation. Besides, I've known him to act on feelings before. Let's see what he says about this one."

Stella sat silent, mulling over what they had. It wasn't enough, not nearly enough. Even given all that Mac and Don were not telling her about Danny and his involvement with the Tanglewood Boys or his family's involvement with the Mafia, it still didn't add up to something which should be making her feel so uneasy. But the fact was, it did, and she was.

They were over the bridge and back into the city before she spoke again.

"We went off the clock an hour ago. Let's go home, and I'll make supper. We can talk this out and meet with Mac in the morning." Stella waited a moment for Don to respond, but he was sunk in thought.

She waited a moment, and touched his arm again. "Don?"

"Hmm? Oh yeah, Stella, sorry. Yeah, Mac should be off by now too. Are you sure you're inviting me for dinner? I may not be the best of company."

Stella returned his grin with a smile of her own, feeling a pleasant little flutter in the pit of her stomach, "I can hear the wheels turning from here. Let's see if we can come up with some theories together, shall we? And I can't possibly eat all this food on my own. I found fresh Roma tomatoes. It's the middle of winter! I asked the woman who owns the store where they were from and she took me into the back. She has a little greenhouse out there with tomatoes and peppers."

She continued chatting about the grocery store and the conversation she had had with the owner, trying, with some eventual success, to draw Don out of his thoughts. She had known it was going to be difficult for him to see the Messers; that much had been obvious from the moment in the incident room between Mac and Don. She really wanted to know more about this situation, but she had promised not to pry. She would just have to find a way to satisfy her curiosity without breaking that promise.

Without discussing it, Don drove to her place, where she had a fully stocked kitchen and a fridge with more in it than a couple of cans of beer, a half dozen eggs and the leftovers his mother had sent after last Sunday dinner. Don carried the bags of groceries up for her and together they chopped and mixed and prepared a pot full of fresh tomatoes, garlic, onions, and chicken.

They worked well together, moving smoothly around the small kitchen, feeding each other pieces of tomato and pepper, chatting about neutral topics like why the Rangers kicked the Islanders' collective ass, and how the lab had been far too quiet without Danny around.

It was comfortable and felt familiar, thought Stella as she stood at the sink, washing her hands. Don came up behind and wrapped his arms around her waist.

"Is it true," he whispered in her ear, "That the longer a tomato sauce simmers, the better it gets?"

She arched her neck so that he had better access to the sensitive skin under her ear. "I have heard that, yes." Her voice shook a little as she turned in his arms.

"Why don't we give it a little time to simmer then?" He groaned into her mouth as she pressed up against him, and lifted her easily off her feet, heading down the hallway to the bedroom.

The flash of heat Stella had experienced on the Island up against Don's car was nothing compared to the quick boil they reached this time. Effortlessly, she reduced him to a quivering heap with hands and tongue, only to fall apart herself when he took control and sent her on her own swift journey into bliss. They found new ways to taste, touch, explore, and pleasure each other until they moved together, came together.

The world just stopped around them, so there was nothing but the evening lights of the city flooding into the bedroom, the smell of tomato sauce and spice filling the air, and the whisper of body to body.

It might have seemed too fast, might have seemed too casual, until they lay together, bodies tingling and breath coming heavy. Until he rolled off her, pulled her into his arms, and mumbled, "Love ya', Stel," as he fell asleep.

She lay with eyes wide open, body slowly cooling in his arms.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-

To: Aisha Blanco

From: Adam RossSubject: WTF?!I don't know what you're talking about. I am not in love with her. I just think she's really brave and smart. She's an amazing scientist and a good friend. None of that translates into "I'm in love with her".

Or have a "crush". Geez, what is this? High school? I stopped having crushes when I was 16 and started having girlfriends.

Where do you get something like that from what I said about her? I'm as worried about him as I am about her. Does that mean I have a crush on him too?

Man, women really are crazy, you know that? Why can't men and women just be friends without everyone accusing them of something else? Do I get to pull this insanity on you? What about that photographer? You going to tell me again he just sees you as an interesting collection of shapes? Yeah, boob and ass shapes!

Get in touch again when you're over it, would you? I'll be waiting, for YOU, not her!

A


	6. Chapter 6:Homecoming

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY. Poetry not otherwise referenced is original._

_A/N: Argh! The site wouldn't let me upload this chapter, so sorry for the delay. Thanks to SallyJetson for her help with bypassing the system! Thanks as always to the people who are reading, and to the people who are reviewing. I appreciate all comments._

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

Chapter 6: Homecoming

When Don woke up, the space beside him in the bed was cool. He could hear Stella moving in the kitchen.

"Nice one, idiot. Falling asleep after sex is a rookie error," Don thought, rolling his eyes. He rolled out of bed, and started pulling his clothes back on as he went to the bathroom, rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt and leaving it untucked.

It didn't take him long to join Stella, who was wearing more casual clothes than he was used to seeing her in, her hair pulled back and a serious look on her face as she cut up vegetables for a salad. He leaned against the door, just watching her for a moment.

"I know you're there, creeper," she said lightly, without turning around. "See something you like?"

"I'm sorry I fell asleep, Stel," he said quietly. He grew up with sisters; he knew there was a definite time limit on apologies.

She looked over her shoulder, eyes laughing, though her face remained solemn. "You do know that it is every woman's goal to exhaust her man until he can't move, don't you?"

"Mission accomplished, then. And may I just say, damn good job." His voice was husky, and he moved towards, enveloping her in a hug. He could just see a clock over her shoulder, and sighed with relief; fifteen minutes was not too much to recover from, he hoped. At least neither pot nor knife had come his way yet.

She felt warm and soft in his arms, and he couldn't resist the urge to kiss her. She tasted of cucumber and spicy tomatoes, and his stomach rumbled loudly before he had even half satisfied his need to have her under his mouth.

She laughed and smacked him on the shoulder. "Dinner, I think. Before you get distracted and ruin my pasta."

"Is that home-made pasta?" He looked into the pot of boiling water, content.

"Yes, but not mine. I tell you, Don, if it wasn't over the bridge and far away, I'd go shopping at that grocery every day. Does Danny see his family much? Maybe I can give him a shopping list next time he goes out to the Island." Stella was draining the pasta, serving up a big plateful swimming in sauce and handing it to Don to put on the table before passing an open bottle of wine and the salad bowl. It took her a moment to realize he had gone still.

"What? What did I say wrong?" Her voice held an unspoken "now".

Don sighed, "Stel, could we eat, because this meal looks and smells too delicious to ruin, and then I promise I'll tell you whatever I can?"

Not, she noticed, whatever he knew.

Tightly, she nodded. She wasn't used to being kept out of things like this. "Put it away, Bonasera," she counseled herself, looking into those wary blue eyes. "Give it a chance. Don't screw this up so quickly."

She smiled and poured two glasses of deep red wine, handing one to Don. Then she lifted hers and said lightly, "Salut!"

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-

When Mac pulled up the car in front of his brownstone, he turned off the engine and held the keys in his hand for a moment, considering. Then he put his head down on the steering wheel and closed his eyes.

She'd refused. Oh, she had smiled, and kissed him as sweetly as only Peyton could, the soft lilt of her voice caressing him as she thanked him. But in the end, she had walked to her own car and driven to her apartment alone.

Damn, damn, damn. He didn't know what else to do. He'd brought her home and she'd refused to stay, claiming the house was still Claire's. Of course, he had brought her by accident, driving to his home automatically after a long and difficult day, but tonight he had told her he wanted her in his house, that he wanted her in his life all the way. And she had seemed to accept that.

Then she had walked to her car and driven off.

Maybe he should have followed her. Maybe she had wanted that, wanted him to prove something to her, prove that he was willing to fight for her. He shook his head at the thought. That wasn't like Peyton. She had walked away before, when they had fought, when he had accidentally called her "Claire", after he had snatched her hand away from his face in the office. She hadn't played games then, hadn't set up some female obstacle course for him to run through to try to get back to her. She had just walked away.

This time was different. She wasn't angry or disappointed. She seemed the same as always. She just refused to come home with him. She had looked at him the way an indulgent mother would look at a child who wanted something that was not good for him, and was moments away from pitching a temper tantrum to get what he wanted.

Mac put his head back against the headrest wearily. He wasn't a child, unsure of what he wanted or needed. He knew he was ready to move on, and he wanted to do that with Peyton. Now, how was he supposed to convince her of that if telling her wasn't enough?

He opened his eyes, and saw a young worried face peering in the window at him. His heart leapt into his throat, even as his hand automatically went for his gun concealed in his shoulder holster. The kid stepped back, hands up, startled, words tumbling out of his mouth.

"Mac? Mac, I'm sorry. I was waiting for you; I wanted to talk, to ask you something. I didn't mean to …"

Reed. It was Reed. Mac swallowed hard and dropped his hand, which had been hovering over his gun. Swiftly, he got out of the car and moved towards the distraught boy.

"It's okay, Reed. I'm sorry. You surprised me, that's all. You okay? Come into the house; we'll talk there."

As he led the boy into the brownstone, he wondered briefly what Peyton was doing.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-

Chris stood at the door of Danny's hospital rooms, his arms crossed, his face set in a scowl. "This is completely against my recommendations, Detective."

"So noted, Doctor," Danny barely grunted as he zipped the sweatshirt up, avoiding the bandages around his abdomen carefully. He had already managed to pull on his sweatpants and a loose t-shirt, although he was pretty sure socks would defeat him.

Lindsay was sitting in a chair beside the window, arms crossed protectively around her body, a worried frown on her face, but biting her tongue. After her own escape from the ward only days ago, she was not in the best position to argue common sense with someone as pig-headed as Danny.

"My mother is taking off a couple of days, Chris. She'll look after him," she offered quietly. When Danny shot her a killing look, she amended that quickly, "Us. She'll look after us."

"Lindsay, there is no one I have more respect for than your mother, you know that. But still, she's not …"

"What? A third grade Math cheat?'

Lindsay turned with relief to her mother, framed in the door. "Mom, are you sure Danny shouldn't stay in the hospital another couple of days?"

"Nonsense. Hospitals are for sick people, and Danny is just fine, aren't you, Danny?"

He nodded, biting his lip against the wave of nausea that rolled over him when he looked on the floor for his shoes.

Diane's careful eye missed nothing, but she continued on, "Look Chris, I may not have a dubious medical certificate from some cut-rate university …"

"Harvard," Lindsay murmured in Danny's direction. 

He raised his eyebrows and fought down a grin. Damn, he liked Montana's mother.

"…But I am perfectly capable of monitoring an injured boy for a few days. It will hardly be for the first time."

Chris threw his hands in the air. "Once again, please note for the record that Detective Messer is leaving against the express recommendation of his physician, and has agreed to sign a form to that effect."

Diane looked over at Lindsay with one eyebrow held high and drawled, "Waal now, don't he talk purty?" She ignored Chris's disgusted snort and Lindsay's stifled giggle and kneeled down in front of Danny to put on his socks and shoes. Danny's cheeks flushed with embarrassment, but Diane paid no more attention to that than she had to Chris. She just looked up at him with a grin and said, "Now, no refusing the wheelchair, okay? Otherwise, we're just going to have to sit here for several more minutes and listen to him yammer some more."

Danny shook his head, "I'll take the wheelchair, as long as it heads for the hills."

Lindsay stood, locking her knees so that she didn't hit the floor. No matter how lightly she treated her injuries when repeatedly asked about them, she was vulnerable to sudden bouts of pain and exhaustion, which she hid as much as possible. Leaning on the wheelchair for support, she brought it over to the side of the bed and bowed gallantly, "Your chariot awaits, milord."

Danny grinned up at her, and took her hand as he pulled himself from bed to chair. "Only until we get to the door, okay?" he muttered under his breath.

"Of the car, okay?" she whispered back, not moving until he reluctantly nodded.

They made a slow royal progress through the hall way, as nearly every nurse wanted to speak to Lindsay and sneak one last look at Danny. When they got to the front door of the hospital, Mick peeled himself off the wall where he had been waiting for them, and smoothly took over for Lindsay. "Truck's out front, peanut. Go get yourself in; I'm on city boy patrol here."

"Mick, it's your truck!" Lindsay said with surprise. "We left it at the cabin."

"I went out with John yesterday and picked it up." Mick's voice was casual, but no one missed the hard swallow or the shadows in his eyes as he recalled the bloody scene. "I am going to help you, Messer, so just shut up, would you?" He followed Lindsay out to the parking lot, pushing the chair as close to the truck as he could get. His hands as he lifted Danny out of the wheelchair and into the front seat of the truck were gentle, and Danny was seated before he could do more than open his mouth, but not before he could roll his eyes.

"I'll meet you at home, Mick. Drive like a reasonably sensible human being, would you please, and not like you're trying to break in a particularly nasty horse?"

His only response was a quick grin and a flip of the hand at his mother.

The long trip out to the ranch was quiet. Both Danny and Lindsay dozed in their respective seats. When Danny roused at one point and looked out the window at endless winter-empty fields and snow-capped mountains rising in the distance, he realized that he had driven that same road perhaps three times, and had seen virtually none of the surrounding countryside. As his eyes shut again, he thought wryly his record was still unblemished.

When they got to the ranch, Mick took Lindsay in first, picking her up against her protests and sternly telling Danny to stay still, "I'll be back for you in a moment, and if you've moved I'll break something. You, for preference."

Lindsay relaxed once Mick placed her in a chair in the living room, instead of taking her upstairs to her bedroom, as she had thought he might. "You are a big bully, Mick Monroe."

"Yes. Yes, I am. But I'm good at it. Stay there. I mean it. I don't want you to see what I do to Messer." Mick glanced out the window to see Danny standing beside the truck, leaning against it heavily to get his breath back. "Geez, Linds, you had to find someone even more stubborn than you are?"

"Who else would put up with me?" she answered dryly.

Mick jogged out to the front yard and stepped up beside Danny, "Stupid ass," he said mildly, putting a strong hand under Danny's arm.

"Bossy ox," Danny grunted back through clenched teeth. "Give me a minute to catch my breath and I can still take you."

"How? By biting my legs off?"

Danny nearly fell over, he laughed so hard. He relaxed a little against Mick, allowing him to take some of his weight. By the time he was on the couch in the same room as Lindsay, he was white and sweating, but his eyes sparkled mischievously as he grinned at her. 

"So, I think I'm starting to understand something about you, Montana. Did they boss you around the whole time you were growing up?"

"Unmercifully!" she said with a sideway glance at her brother.

Mick stalked out of the room, grumbling under his breath, "You try to be nice."

She put her head back and laughed for the first time, it felt, in weeks. Danny reached out and grabbed her hand, linking her fingers with his.

And for a fragile moment, they were balanced, one with the other.


	7. Chapter 7: Making a Start

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY. Poetry not referenced is original_

_A/N: Lots of requests for Hawkes to have his own story line, so here he is. There's a little Mac/Reed stuff here too. Let me know what you think!_

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_Hollow Man_

_I stand empty, waiting to be filled._

_I used to know what was inside me,_

_Who I seemed to be was who I was_

_And now I stand uncertain, unclear_

_What reflection of self do I see in your eyes?_

_The person I am?_

_Or the person you want me to be?_

_SMT, April 2007_

Chapter 7: Making a Start

Hawkes rolled over in bed, stretching and yawning as he glanced at the clock beside him. For the first time in two weeks, he had a real day off, and, with Danny and Lindsay finally safe, if not completely sound, he had no other mysteries or cases hanging over his head either.

His last case had been wrapped up pretty quickly, thanks to Adam; he hadn't even needed the verification of the DNA tests. He had talked to the wife of his dead stockbroker with the paraffin wax on his suit jacket: the old stories were still the best. The fifty-three year old suit had told her the night before that he was in love for the first time, with his twenty-five year old personal trainer.

The next morning, the wife had added kiwi juice to the batch of strawberry jam she made him every year, then kissed him forgivingly, transferring traces of paraffin to the lapels of his suit jacket, and told him she wouldn't stand in the way of his happiness.

Evidently she was referring to his eternal happiness. He was deathly allergic to kiwi, as his subsequent death on the subway only a few blocks from his home had proven. She had confessed in a shivering heap, looking at Hawkes with huge eyes and asking, "What am I going to do now? What am I going to do without him?"

Hawkes thought with a cynicism he did not often show at work that she had a lot of time to work that out: fifteen to twenty-five years if she had a good lawyer.

The day stretched out in front of him like a gift, and he decided a quick jog in the park and a coffee from his local shop would start things off well. He had stopped running at night after the Casey case; there were still a few officers who looked away when he walked into the station. None of the ones who worked with him regularly, but a few. Captain Gerrard, who would love to nail one of Taylor's people, always made sure that Hawkes was watched closely by whatever uniformed officers were assigned to the scene. Flack always kicked their asses for it if he caught them at it.

He didn't always catch them.

Hawkes shrugged it off, as he had shrugged off more than thirty years of similar petty insults and posturings. People could be hateful, he knew, and whether they saw a black man to hate, or an intelligent man to despise, or a punk from Harlem who somehow made it to the status of doctor to envy, it didn't matter once the target was painted on his back.

"Feeling bitter, Hawkes?" he jeered at himself as he threw his clothes in the hamper and pulled his running clothes out the drawer. "Give it up, man. None of it changes who you are. And who is that?"

He laughed at himself for the self-indulgent pep talk. He had had a bad time after a couple of hits: the conflict at the hospital with his former Chief of Staff in the case involving the teenager killed by her own mother; then his arrest. He'd had serious doubts about his third choice of profession at that point.

A comment from Danny Messer and a question from a paramedic had forced him to confirm something for himself if not for everyone else around him: first and foremost, he was a doctor. And after he had gone for his jog, and had a shower, he was finally going to find a way to prove it to himself.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-

Mac opened his eyes and blinked up at the ceiling. He could swear he smelled coffee. And eggs. And maybe, possibly, although it seemed highly unlikely, bacon.

He thought back to the night before. He'd been blown off by Peyton – yeah, he remembered that. Had the living shit scared out of him by Reed, whom he had almost pulled a gun on – check. Then Reed had told him …

"Damn!" Mac's feet hit the ground running; he was downstairs in his track pants and t-shirt and through the kitchen door before his brain caught up with him.

He stopped before he frightened Reed again. After all, it was hardly likely that anything was wrong when Reed was standing in front of the stove, frying up bacon and cheerfully humming along to the music currently blasting into his ears from his iPod. He was wearing a faded old NYPD t-shirt of Mac's and a pair of sweats that hung off his lean hips, and would have trailed on the ground if he hadn't rolled them up nearly to his knees. Mac leaned up against the wall and watched the kid for a moment, trying to see something of Claire in him.

He had told Reed at that first, uncomfortable meeting in the coffee shop that Claire looked a lot like him, and it was true: the big blue eyes, the curly brown hair, the slight build. But every time he saw Reed, and it had been a few times now, he waited to see something else, a look, a way of moving, a flashing smile, that would bring Claire back from the dead for just a moment.

Resurrection seemed like quite a burden for a boy not yet twenty.

Perhaps if Claire had had the chance to meet Reed earlier, if she had chosen to bring the boy up herself, he would be more like her, would have picked her tones of voice, her hand movements as she talked. He might have picked up the way she would tilt her head when she asked a serious question Mac did not want to answer. He might have spoken with her rippling fluency, her passion.

Or perhaps he was just like her, and Mac had simply forgotten the way her eyes lit up when she smiled, or the tone in her voice when she teased him. He shut his eyes in pain at the thought.

"Hey, you're up!" Reed's voice was too loud, a perennial problem for people who talked with earbuds in. "I made some breakfast; you hungry?"

"I could eat," Mac said with a cautious smile. "I'll start with some of that coffee." He walked over to the cupboard to grab a mug, and saw the teacup he had unearthed for Peyton a few nights ago, carefully washed and placed where she could reach it herself the next time she came to stay. He clenched his fist briefly, and turned to the coffee maker to fill his cup.

"Over easy or sunny-side up?" Reed asked, still a little too loud.

Mac tapped his own ear, and with a grin Reed pulled the buds out, dropping them around his neck so he moved in a cloud of music that swarmed around his head like midges. Mac was a little surprised to hear jazz playing; he had expected maybe house or rap.

"Over easy. Who you listening to?" he gestured to the iPod.

"Jamie Cullum at the moment. It could be anyone: pretty eclectic taste in music, actually." Reed slid an egg and a couple slices of bacon onto a plate for Mac, then piled his own plate and sat down to start eating.

Mac quirked an eyebrow at the unequal distribution of food on the two plates, but refrained from saying anything, choosing instead to just enjoy some company and the taste of home-cooked food he hadn't had to prepare.

"You sleep okay?" he asked casually.

"Yeah, it was good, thanks. I'd kind of expected a blanket on a couch; a whole bedroom was more than I bargained for." Reed didn't look at Mac, concentrating on eating.

"You're welcome anytime. You want to tell me why you showed up last night, or are you still working it out?" Mac concentrated on finishing his coffee slowly. Interrogation techniques were not what Reed needed from him, he reminded himself. He wasn't sure what Reed wanted from him, or why he had shown up the night before, soaking with sweat, stinking with fear, but clearly neither intoxicated nor high. He had been jumpy, unable to sit down, pacing the floor, and had finally declined to talk, claiming he just needed a safe place to crash for the night.

Reed looked up at him with a look Mac recognized from a thousand young suspects in a thousand interview rooms. More, though, he looked up at him with Claire's eyes, and with the same look she had had the night she had told him her biggest secret.

The night she had told him about Reed.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-

The day was crisp and clear, and Hawkes had been out for about a half hour when he decided it was time to head for coffee. The park was filling up and the jogging trails were starting to get crowded. Hawkes missed the quiet of running at night on roads that were as peaceful as New York streets ever were. Still, compromise was nothing new to him.

He stopped in front of his usual coffee shop, and waved to the young girl behind the counter. By the time he had stretched out a little so that his muscles didn't tighten up too much, Karisa had poured his preferred drink and put it on his tab already. Once a month or so, Hawkes would put some money on the account so that he didn't have to carry cash.

She brought the drink out to him, and stopped to chat and flirt for a moment. Hawkes was used to it; for some reason, the younger the girl, the more attractive she seemed to find him. As he wasn't into pedophilia, it didn't do much for him. Women his own age seemed mostly interested in his friendship, especially when they were having trouble with the men in their romantic relationships.

He thought with a sigh about the phone call from Peyton the night before. It wasn't that he was interested in Peyton that way; had he been he would have made a serious move long before she had started seeing his boss. That was the thing, though. Mac was his boss, and he did not want to be involved in any way between his friend and his boss. He could only see ways to lose in that position.

But what was he supposed to say when she had phoned him, asking for a friendly shoulder to cry on? Not that she did much crying: seemed to him she had things going pretty much her own way. She wanted to be in Mac's life, and he was slowly opening up to the idea more and more. If she just kept doing what she was doing, Hawkes thought there was a good chance she'd get everything she wanted, including the white dress and veil fantasy she hadn't even mentioned yet, but he could feel hovering over her every word.

He had said as little as possible, actually. He had learned, through years of being women's 'best guy friend', that there was nothing he could say that wouldn't bite him on the ass sooner rather than later.

He walked to a bench in the park near the chess players, and sipped his coffee reflectively. He watched people; it was what he did. He was even better at it than Mac was. He'd won the bet about Don Flack and Stella, which hadn't been hard. Flack had been staring at Stella for so long, Hawkes bet there was a permanent impression of her on his eyeballs. Stella had been so sunk in guilt and pain over Frankie Mala that Flack had been afraid to move, but Hawkes wasn't surprised that once he did, Stella had fallen in one swift tumble.

Hawkes watched a couple of old men playing, intent and focused. Was this his future? Finding companionship on a cold bench in a silent game with people whose faces he would come to know intimately, but whose names he may never hear?

He finished off his coffee in one swift gulp, balled up the paper cup and shot it into a nearby garbage can. It was time – more than time – to change things up. He loved his job, and enjoyed the people he worked with. But it wasn't enough. It wasn't enough to keep working double and triple shifts because he had nowhere else in particular to be.

It was time to find that thing that lit him up, the thing his mother claimed God had intended him for.

He stretched again and took off down a street he rarely went on. It was a continuation of the brownstones and residential area around the park, but he knew that one end was all commercial, mostly small, family-owned businesses passed down at least one generation. Fifty years ago, they would have been mostly European: Polish, Italian, Russian. Nowadays, they were more likely to be Asian and Middle Eastern: Korean, Vietnamese, Iranian. The streets were a riot of colours, smells, and voices speaking a hundred different languages and dialects, overlaid with the ordinary traffic sounds of a New York morning. He slowed down to a walk; the streets were too crowded to run effectively, and he was a little more cautious about running through crowds these days.

He stopped when he noticed a small group of people standing in front of a plain white building with a clear glass door. Mostly men, they were grumbling in a rich mixture of languages, not yet dangerously angry, but working themselves up to it. Hawkes stepped a little closer, feeling a little strange as he looked around. Aside from the language differences, he saw more faces which looked like his own in this crowd than he did in a normal day at work, than he had since he had left his home in Harlem.

A police car cruised by, slowing down obviously, and the men broke up into small groups, walking off in different directions. Hawkes continued down the street, the hairs on the back of his necks bristling as he ran by the radio car. He still overreacted to any threat, real or not, and he hated that feeling. It was definitely time to find a new place to set his feet, a new sense of himself.


	8. Chapter 8: Making a Stand

_A Healing Heart_

_It was mine, my home, my haven,_

_And he smashed it like glass in an angry hand,_

_Filling his soul with the splinters of my life._

_No matter how many times I tried,_

_I could not unbreak the broken._

_I stood over the trash bin,_

_The swept up pieces of shattered peace_

_Poised for disposal_

_As his body entered the place of burning,_

_As his soul entered the place of burning,_

_But I could not tip my hand,_

_Could not consign my home to the garbage._

_Bones mend, don't they?_

_Wounds heal._

_They scar,_

_But scar tissue,_

_They say,_

_Is the strongest._

_And so I stayed execution_

_On the debris of my life._

_As I had not stayed my hand on the trigger._

_I restored what I could_

_Replaced what I had to_

_And I healed what was left._

_And day by day,_

_in the silence of my home_

_I heal what is left._

_SMT, 2007 _

* * *

Chapter 8: Making a Stand

Stella stepped out of the shower and reached for a towel. She could smell the coffee brewing in her kitchen, could feel the peace and solitude of her little space, the apartment she had scrubbed and cleansed and repainted. She had even asked Father Tony from St Augustine's to do a house blessing a few weeks ago.

After Frankie Mala had attacked her and held her captive in her own home, she had wondered if she could ever go back. The woman from Victim's Services, the departmental therapist, even Mac had counseled her against it, telling her that making a clean break with the past would be better, more beneficial for her healing. She had refused all advice, of course, and returned when she came out of hospital, only to throw some clothes in a bag and retreat to a hotel for a week after all.

Then she had come back, after Crime Scene Cleanup had done its work, and started to do her own work. This was her place after all, the first place she had lived in that owed nothing to the system, owed nothing to anyone but her. Bouncing around foster homes and institutions most of her childhood, living in dorms and women's residences during her college years, she had found and decorated this little space of her own. It was her refuge and her nest and all the homes she had never had when she was growing up.

She'd be damned if she let a sadistic psychopath take that away from her for good.

Wrapping the towel around her, she wandered in to the kitchen and poured herself coffee, adding cream and putting down toast in well-rehearsed patterns. She caught sight of the empty bottle of wine still sitting on the counter, and ran her hand over it consideringly.

By the time her toast had popped up, she was on her second cup of coffee and had picked out the clothes she was wearing for work. A normal morning, on a normal day, getting ready for work, just as usual.

"Oh, who the hell are you kidding?" she groused as she crunched down on her toast. "You have a bad case of the morning after the night before."

Not hung-over, although half a bottle of wine should have had that effect. Stella guessed that eating ten tons of pasta and drinking over three hours could spread the effect out. But eating and talking to Don had been so easy, it hadn't seemed unusual to be only cleaning up the dinner dishes at nearly 11:00 at night. And then, just as decisions needed to be made, conversations needed to be had, his cell phone rang, and he was off.

"Well," she comforted herself, "It's not like I couldn't have expected it. After all, he took a couple of hours out of his workday yesterday to go out to the Messers. I knew he was on secondary call, too. At least he got to eat."

So far, as a couple, they'd managed one coffee, one meal, one road trip (even if a short one) and two, nearly three, amazing bouts of sex. Stella felt her cheeks heat at the thought.

So where the hell had "Love ya', Stel," come from? She knew he had said it just as he went to sleep. She had felt the words burn into her. Then he woke a few minutes later, and never mentioned it.

Of course, neither had she.

The last person who had told her that was Frankie. Involuntarily, she glanced at the window which had framed him as she blew three bullets into him. Then she shook it off: this was her home, and he had no place here.

And, even after all the talking they had done last night, Don had managed to completely avoid the topic of the Messer family and what he knew about Danny.

It wasn't gossip, Stella tried to convince herself, if she only wanted to know in order to help a friend. She didn't want to know just for the sake of knowing, the way she wanted to know, for example, whether Lindsay and Danny had managed to have sex in Montana, and whether it had remained overwhelming for the cocky New Yorker. She was pretty sure it would have been for the less experienced Lindsay.

No, she wanted to get all the details on that purely the way she wanted to buy new shoes whenever she had a bad day: it just made her feel happy. But the bad blood between Mac and Don and the Messer family – that was more like a curiosity chip in her head: she wouldn't be able to think about anything else until she had that cleared up.

Because she had a bad feeling about this. The Sassones, the Messers, the Flacks, Mac: the whole setup screamed trouble. And Danny was going to be in the middle of it. And if he was, then so was Lindsay.

Stella may not have been able to stop what happened in Montana. She hadn't been able to help Lindsay out there. But once Linds came back to New York, she was Stella's again. And Stella didn't let people she loved get hurt. It was like an article of faith for her.

She dressed and left her apartment, walking out to the nearby subway stop. As she did, she made two calls: one to Flack, whose phone went straight to voice mail, so she left a message.

The second to St Augustine's.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-

To: Aisha Blanco

From: Adam Ross

Subject: R U talking 2 me yet?

send

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-

Reed jumped up from his chair and started clearing the table, stacking the dishes in the dishwasher after scraping them, wiping the grease out of the frying pan before putting it in the sink and filling it with hot water. He did it all so automatically that Mac could only mentally compliment his mother on having trained him well.

"Well," Mac's thought continued down that line, "If he's not ready to tell you why he's here, get to him from a different angle."

"Tell me about your parents, Reed," he said casually as he filled his coffee cup yet again. He shoved the chair he had been sitting in away from the table a little, into the early morning sunshine and half-closed his eyes, lifting his face to the warmth.

Reed glanced at him as if wondering about the change of topic, but then shrugged and topped up his coffee as well, before pulling himself up on the kitchen counter, swinging feet that were several inches off the ground.

"My dad, he's a librarian. Peter Garrett. He works at the New York Public Library. I used to walk to the Library from school and wait for him every day. I'd sit in the children's section and read or do homework."

Reed's eyes were bright and his body was relaxed. He wasn't worried about his dad, Mac diagnosed.

"And your mother?"

Reed stiffened, and some of the light was dimmed by worry, "She's a lawyer. Well, a city councilor, now."

Mac sat up a little, "Miranda Garrett? She's your mother?"

Reed nodded, and looked down at his hands, wrapped whitely around the edge of the counter. "I thought you'd call her my adoptive mother."

"Why? She brought you up, didn't she? Claire …" Mac's voice faded a bit as he said his wife's name, but he cleared his throat and carried on strong, "Claire always said she wondered what your parents were like. A librarian and a politician! I don't know whether she would have guessed that."

"You said she talked about me?"

"Every year, on your birthday, Claire would bring home a little cake. She called it her 'best worst day' cake. She'd put on the right number of candles, and blow them out for you. And she'd make a wish." Mac kept his eyes closed. Too much. The memories, flooding back now, were too much.

"What kinds of wishes?" Reed's voice was muffled.

"She didn't always tell me – it's bad luck. When you turned three, she wished a brother or sister for you. When you turned five, she wished you would like kindergarten." Mac sighed, "She wished that you would be healthy and happy, always. Her last wish… the year you turned thirteen … was that the teenage years would be easy for you."

Reed looked up. "I always have two gift days: one on my birthday, and one on my adoption day. My dad always gives me a book on my adoption day. At first it was a book, you know, about being adopted. Later, it was something he thought I should read. When I was twelve, they told me that I could look for my mother when I was eighteen. I'd always known that I had a birth mother out there somewhere. It's nice to know she thought about me too."

Mac stood up and turned away, briskly rubbing a hand over his wet eyes. "You want the first shower? I have to go in to work pretty soon here." He actually was on the later shift, but perhaps the threat of having to leave would open Reed up.

"Um, that's okay. I'll go back to the dorm. Mac, I … thanks for letting me stay. I think I over-reacted to something I heard. I'm okay now." Reed dropped off the counter, refusing to look Mac in the eyes.

Mac stopped and put his hands on Reed's thin shoulders. "Reed, if you want to tell me, want me to help you work something out, I'm here. Sometimes if you say something out loud, you can figure out more about it. That's why we work in teams at CSI, so that we can talk things out, bounce ideas off each other."

Reed looked up at him, a flicker of hope deep in his eyes. "Some of it sounds stupid."

Mac pushed him into a chair and grinned a little. "Then let's sort out what's stupid from what's worrying, okay?"

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-

When Stella got into work, the office seemed unusually quiet. Mac and Hawkes were both on later shifts than she was today, and Adam was hiding and sulking in his lab. She had statements to prepare for a court appearance that afternoon, and with a sigh she pulled up the information on her computer.

There was always more information than a jury could easily take in or understand: it was one of the jobs of an investigator to make the most important things accessible to the average person on a jury. Stella didn't subscribe to the cynical view of jurors as "people too stupid to get out of jury duty".

According to Mac, "It was a significant part of civic responsibility to be willing to put personal concerns aside and give time to the business of the State." Like every one on his team, Stella saw her role as educating citizens as well as presenting a case for the prosecution. The case she was preparing was a reasonably simple one, but the conclusion led directly from the evidence she was presenting.

"Get that right, they get it all right," she thought to herself as she reviewed the case files.

Her cell phone rang and she answered it offhandedly, "Bonasera."

"Stella? It's Lindsay," the younger woman's voice shook slightly.

"Lindsay!" Stella nearly dropped the phone, but recovered quickly. "Are you all right? Where are you? What's happening? When are you coming back?"

Lindsay chuckled, sounding more relaxed as she tried to answer even one of the questions that had tumbled out of Stella's mouth. "I'm at home, at the ranch, I mean. We're … all right, I guess, considering. I have to stay this week for the hearing into Forbes' appeal. It'll be dismissed; we have all the evidence we need against him. He didn't kill them all, but he did shoot Cameron and Mark. I'll be home as soon as I can after that."

Stella smiled at hearing her call New York home, "What about Danny? How is he doing?"

"My mom insisted on springing Danny, so he's here with me. He was going stir crazy in the hospital. I don't think he should have come out so soon."

Stella could imagine Lindsay biting her bottom lip as she did when she was worried. "Your mom wouldn't have supported him leaving if she didn't think he would be okay, Lindsay. Sometimes, people just need to do things their own way."

"My mother would do anything Danny asked her to. I notice she didn't bring _me_ home so quickly," Lindsay grumbled.

"So, your mom likes him?" Stella probed.

"No. My mom _loves _him. She loves him more than she does me, I think. And my dad seems to like him, which is weird. And even Mick and Jamie are nice to him. It's all very strange, Stel."

"I notice you didn't add John to the Danny Messer Fan Club list," Stella teased.

"No," Lindsay laughed. "John still doesn't do more than tolerate him. At least I can count on him."

Stella chuckled. "You and Danny … you two okay?" Details would have to wait until she could get Lindsay alone and off guard, but the big question had to be asked.

Lindsay was silent for a minute; then she sighed. "He got shot, Stella. A through and through from back to front. It should have killed him. And then, he crawled – I don't know how far, 20 yards? – to the cabin. And came in with his gun in his hand, covered in blood, soaked to the skin. Every time I close my eyes, I see him like that."

"Lindsay," Stella broke in before Lindsay lost her composure. "Danny is a tough guy, you know. And he was where he wanted to be, where he had to be. He loves you."

"I love him, too." It came out as a whisper, then Lindsay sighed and said it with more confidence, "Of course I do. But …"

"No," Stella interrupted. "No buts. In our line of work, there's no time for buts." She looked up at a movement in the doorway, and her eyes widened as she saw Don Flack leaning up against the doorway. Her voice lowered and warmed as she said, "When life could change in a minute, Lindsay, you grab on to whatever good thing comes into it and you don't let go. Do you hear me?"

Flack nodded once, his blue eyes unreadable.


	9. Chapter 9: Making Amends

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY. Poetry not otherwise referenced is original._

_A/N: Ah! Alerts. Not. Working. I hate that. I promise I am responding to reviews and comments. Thank you to the people who are keeping up with the epic – looks like it is just going to get bigger. For those waiting for more D/L, I promise it is coming, but all the other characters have demanded more time and bigger story lines, so I am just following orders (that Stella can be scary when she doesn't get what she wants!)_

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

* * *

_Circle Dance_

_When I see you, the music swells._

_We step towards each other;_

_The lights dim and your hand fits in mine_

_Perfectly._

_It is hard to tell who leads –_

_Who follows_

_The steps of the dance were set down for us_

_Long ago._

_Switch partners: I lose hold of you;_

_The warmth of your hand is offered to another._

_But the circle swings around in time _

_And you return to me._

_I will not lose you again._

_SMT 2007_

* * *

Chapter 9: Making Amends

Lindsay hung up the phone in the kitchen with a sigh. Talking to Stella always made her feel a little better. Stel had been the first person at the lab to treat her as a colleague and a friend: Mac had treated her as a professional, but definitely a subordinate, and Danny ... well, Danny had treated her like a country hick. The thought of her calling Mac 'sir' still had the power to make her cringe with embarrassment.

Lindsay flushed a little uncomfortably, thinking back to the moment a few weeks before that she had almost destroyed two years of careful friendship. Telling her boss to leave her alone had been childish and petulant, she knew. But she had been struggling for weeks with the feeling of being slowly dragged under, with the nightmares that would not go away. Everything had started to remind her of that first scene she had been involved in: sleep had been a torment and work had been torture.

"Hey, Montana?"

She snapped her head around to the kitchen door, to where Danny stood, white-faced and shaking slightly. She pushed herself to her feet, "Danny! I could have brought you what you needed. Why are you up?"

"I need to call my folks, Linds. They don't know what happened."

"Danny, I'm sure Mac told them," Lindsay's voice faltered as Danny's eyes went dead, "or someone else from the office. Still, you should talk to them. They'll be worried sick." She chattered on, aware that something was wrong when Danny did not brighten. "You could stay on the couch, though. I can bring you the cordless phone. These chairs aren't very comfortable."

"This is fine, Linds." Danny sat down beside the wall phone, and clenched his fist through a wave of pain. When he opened his eyes, a glass of water and his pill bottle was on the table in front of him.

"I'll just give you some privacy, okay?" She shuffled out of the room, dry swallowing her own pills as she went.

Danny watched her out of the room, and waited until the door had closed behind her before lifting the receiver and dialing the number. He glanced at the clock as he did so, calculating the time in New York. It was a Saturday. With any luck …

"Hello?"

Danny swallowed hard, "Hi, Ma."

There was silence on the other end of the line.

"It's Danny, Ma. I just wanted you to know …" his voice trailed off.

"What?" he thought dispiritedly. "What do I want you to know? I took off without telling you? I got shot? I'm not dead yet?"

"Wonderboy the detective came. He said you had been shot." Her voice was cold, but not hostile.

Danny sighed in relief – he'd caught her at the right moment – then reacted in surprise, "Flack? Flack came to tell you?"

"Yes, that one: SuperCop they're calling him in the papers. Are you in Montana? He said you were in Montana."

"Yeah, Ma. I'm in Montana. Remember my partner? I told you about her?"

"You told your father about her."

"Yeah. Well, she needed some help, so I came out here…" Danny fumbled.

"And got yourself shot. Some help."

Danny sighed, "Is Dad around?"

"Yeah, I'll get him."

"Thanks, Ma." Danny waited a few minutes, then heard his father's deep voice.

"What in God's name are you up to, boy?"

Danny sat back slightly in the chair, wrapping his feet around the chair legs, rubbing his fingers lightly over the incision in his side. "Hey, Dad."

"Montana. Where the fuck's that?"

Danny looked out the window at the high mountains, covered in snow, the horses grazing in nearby fields. "Other side of the world, Dad. Right round the other side of the world."

"You okay, Daniel?"

"Will be."

"You in the hospital?"

"Naw, Lindsay's parents' ranch." Danny recited the phone number. "They're looking after me."

"You just be careful, Daniel. Families can be a fuckin' bear trap. Be smart. You hear me? You hear what I'm telling you?"

Danny rubbed his hand over his head and down the back of his neck, stifling a sigh. "Yeah, Dad, I hear you."

He hung up and dropped his head into his hands. He knew everything there was to know about the family trap.

He picked up the pill bottle in front of him, rolling it between his hands. He took off the lid and poured the pills out on the table, flicking through them, counting them, then swept them into his right hand, which he clenched into a tight fist.

With a deep breath, he pushed himself up from the table. Lindsay had been right; they were not comfortable chairs. He took two steps to the sink, dropped the handful of pills into it, then turned on the water, hard, and watched them dissolve down the drain.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-

"Dr. Lissa Willette. How are you doing?" Hawkes smiled at the petite doctor whose masses of dark hair were intricately braided and pulled off her face. When she smiled back, the dimples in her cheeks made her look like an impudent ten year old.

"Sheldon? I was so glad to get your call! You're early!" She threw herself into his arms and did a little dance before pulling back and looking him in the eyes. "How are things going with you? I hear you've had a rough time."

"How do you do that?" Hawkes groused goodnaturedly. "I haven't spoken to you for four months, don't even know what's up in your life, but you're all caught up on mine?"

She grinned at him again, "Ah, but the mysterious Dr. Hawkes is always food for gossip! Besides I was going out with a paramedic who talks to the cops and so on and so on…" She twirled her finger in the air, miming the never-ending cycle of rumour and speculation that, along with coffee and doughnuts, fueled the Emergency Services of New York City.

"Ahh, _was _going out? As in no longer going out?" Hawkes slowed his walking pace to Lissa's as they moved down the hospital corridor towards the Exit doors.

"Broke up last week," she said without much regret. "Schedules too awkward, timing too awkward, sex too awkward." She grinned at his slightly shocked face and added, "He's 6'5". I always felt I needed a step ladder!"

Hawkes laughed and threw an arm around her shoulders. She barely came to his chin. "You need to come back to me. We always fit together."

"Too true," she flashed those dimples at him again, "I'm afraid you ruined me for any other man, Sheldon Hawkes."

Teasing each other felt comfortable, thought Sheldon, as they walked out into the brisk winter morning. The sun gave a spurious sense of warmth to the day, but noticing Lissa shivering a bit as she pulled her coat closer, he found them a spot to sit against the wall, where any heat the day could provide was radiated off the brick.

"So, tell me everything," Lissa said, putting her face up to the sun and sighing gratefully. "I was so surprised to get your phone call. I'm sorry I couldn't get away for longer – we're short staffed as always."

"It's okay. I called on an impulse, so I'm just glad you have a few minutes for me. Things are okay." Sheldon put his head back as well, closing his eyes.

"That was convincing. You still liking the CSI gig?"

"I love it. I really do, Lissa. It takes everything I know how to do and puts it all together. And I like the people I work with: they all have their own reasons for being there, but they all agree that finding the truth is the most important thing."

"What about that investigator you were interested in? How did that go?"

"It didn't. Turns out the feeling was not … reciprocal."

Lissa turned slightly to watch Sheldon's face, but it was as composed as ever. She put a small hand on his arm, and squeezed gently. "She doesn't know what she's missing."

Shel smiled down at her. "Thanks, Lissa, but don't go thinking I'm suffering from a broken heart or anything. I'm fine. I did want to talk to you about something though."

"I _knew _this wasn't a social call!" she groused.

"No, a social call would include drinks and dinner, which I hope to score a date for before you have to go back to work," he teased. "But I need some advice."

"Sure."

Hawkes told her about the feeling he had been struggling with that he was no longer a doctor. "And I want that feeling back, you know? So I'm looking for an … outlet for that, I guess."

Lissa frowned thoughtfully. "You quitting the investigating?"

"No. I just want to add something, purely volunteer for now."

"You want to go overseas?"

"Doctors Without Borders kind of stuff?" He deliberated for a moment, then shook his head. "I had thought of it, but I don't want to take a leave right now. Mac would go crazy if another CSI took off."

"So, you're looking for something socially redeeming here in town that won't take too much time?" Lissa watched him steadily as he flushed uncomfortably.

"It sounds pretty selfish and useless when you put it that way."

"Good. It sounded a little like that to me too."

"Well, I'm sorry. If you can't help me, maybe I'll …" Sheldon started to get up, but Lissa smacked him on the shoulder and waved off his comment.

"Look, Shel, you are one of the kindest, most giving people I know. I don't think choosing to do something for other people is ever a bad thing, and if it makes you feel better at the same time, go for it. I just wanted to make sure what the motive is here. It makes a difference about which places I suggest."

Sheldon sat down again, leaning forward, his weight on his arms, as if poised to leap to his feet again. He wasn't really sure what the motive was himself. All he knew was that he had to do something to give his life some focus.

Lissa took pity on the normally placid Hawkes as she watched the conflicting emotions run over his face. "Look. Let's meet for dinner tonight. I get off shift at 3:00. You?"

"Day off."

"Okay. Let's meet and I'll bring a list of some places for you to think about. How soon do you want to start saving the world?" She said it lightly, trying to erase some of the doubt she had sunk him in.

"Two of our CSIs are out for at least another month. So it couldn't be until then."

"Okay. Anything in particular you want to do?"

"I … don't know. I haven't really thought this out, I guess," he admitted, a little frustrated with himself.

She smiled at him, her deep brown eyes serene. "Then we'll work it out tonight. Over seafood."

He laughed. Seafood had been a wicked indulgence when they were students, and he immediately knew where to meet her.

"Mulvaney's at 6:00?"

"See you then. You're buying," she smiled.

"Me? How come I'm buying?" he said indignantly

"It's that caring, giving nature of yours, Shel." Her tone was mocking.

Laughing, he kissed her cheek and waved as she went back into the busy hospital.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-

Stella looked up at Don. "What you are doing here? Aren't you off shift yet?"

"Got a DB in the park, thought you might want to go for a ride."

She flashed him a grin, "I have court at 1:00, and you know the other shift is on. Why didn't you ask one of the other investigators?"

He raised an eyebrow at her. "I could say it was because I only work with the best, but that wouldn't be the only reason."

Stella grabbed her jacket, putting her case information together to be delivered to the courthouse later. "You do only work with the best. So what would be the other reason?"

He waited until she was standing beside him in the doorway, moving slightly so his body blocked her. "You smell good."

Her breathing hitched as she felt his breath on her skin. "It's the shampoo – any salon'll get you the same smell."

He shook his head, "It's you."

Although he didn't touch her, Stella could feel the path his hands had traced over her body the night before, and her pulse began to race. She looked up at him, her green eyes smoky and bright. "You're obstructing an officer in the performance of her duty, Detective."

He didn't move for a minute; then he took a deliberate step back. "Got your kit?" His voice was cool and unaffected as he motioned for her to go ahead of him.

She smirked and added a little sway to her walk, knowing he was watching her. Without discussion, they moved towards the exit door for the stairs, preferring not to be under scrutiny in the elevator.

Stella made it to the first landing before Don caught up and moved in front of her, standing a step lower so their faces were level, and put his arms around her, catching her mouth before she could do more than say, "Not here, Don." She dropped her kit as her body warmed against his, her hands framing his face.

"I missed you," he whispered as the kiss ended, and he trailed his mouth down her throat.

"I missed you, too," Stella answered, moaning a little as he grazed her skin with his teeth.

"When are you off today?"

"After court, maybe by 5:00?" Her head was spinning and she couldn't quite remember her schedule.

"Call me when you're done, okay?" Don stepped back after giving her one quick final hug, and with the straightening of his tie, effortlessly shifted back into Detective Don Flack.

Stella nodded, although she had had every intention of telling him she couldn't see him that night. She needed to figure out what she wanted from all this, but at the moment, all she could feel was a burning need.


	10. Chapter 10: Listening to Silence

_ Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY. Poetry not otherwise referenced is original._

_A/N: Thanks to those who are reading and reviewing - I appreciate all responses. The story is getting bigger and all cast members will have a story line. Well, except Sid Hammerback. At the moment._

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night". _

* * *

_The Silence is the Music_

_You speak; I listen._

_But I do not hear your words:_

_They only beat time, _

_A pulse between the pauses._

_In the silence I hear your heart_

_Beat for beat against mine._

_I hear your love and your fear_

_I hear your anger and your sorrow_

_Your words are masks to hide behind._

_In the silence we meet heart to heart. _

_SMT, 2007_

* * *

Chapter 10: Listening to the Silence

To: Aisha Blanco

From: Adam Ross

Subject: Still waiting

You have got to be freaking kiddin me! You still hanging on to this bizarre idea? Look – I told you. She's my friend. He's my friend. He went to Montana and got himself shot. For her. Even if I had any other kind of feelings for her, WHICH I DON'T, he and she are a they.

So, are we going to keep banging into this? Or are you going to let it go?

Look Aisha, I really like you. I want to meet and see how much further we can take things. But you have to let this go.

I am not interested in Lindsay Monroe.

Not.

OK?

A

send

"Adam? Have you got a result for me on the trace we found?" Stella tapped the tech on the shoulder.

Adam flinched, recovering himself when he saw that it was Stella. "Sorry, what was that?"

"Trace? DB in the park? Covered with some sort of yellow dust?"

"Pollen," Adam corrected her absently.

"Pollen? Adam, her face was covered in it, at least a couple millimeters thick. It's getting warmer out there, but there aren't enough flowers open in all Manhattan for her to run into that much pollen," Stella objected.

Adam shoved with his feet, sending his chair careening over to one of the clacking machines, and pulled off a chemical analysis report. "Bee pollen," he corrected her shortly. "Trace amounts of minerals and vitamins. High in protein and carbs. Commercial grade."

"Commercial bees?" Flack said, obvious visions of the Honey Nut Cheerios bee running through his head.

"Okay, so bee pollen is used as alternative medicine to slow the aging process and enhance energy, among other things" Stella said thoughtfully. "But it's a food supplement, not a … face pack."

"Plus," Adam said, looking at the picture Stella had from the autopsy, "That amount of pollen would be about a three months' supply, and it ain't particularly cheap."

"But did it kill her?" Flack said.

"If she was allergic to bees, maybe. But not very likely."

"And if she was allergic, and someone wanted to kill her it would be easier to have her ingest the pollen: more efficient, cheaper, and not quite so creepy," Adam added.

"Well, I'll go see Sid, see if he has anything yet from the prelim. Then I'm sorry Flack, but I have to go to court."

"Yeah, okay. I'll drive ya'. Thanks, Adam. Beee seein' you."

"Buzzzz off."

"Boys! Beee nice!"

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-

Mac drove into the car lot as Flack and Stella pulled out. He waved, but they were talking animatedly, arguing, if Mac knew Stella, and so didn't see him. He parked in his usual space, and took the stairs up to his office, preferring a few more minutes of solitude before facing whatever new cases had come in over the nearly fifteen hours he had been off shift.

Reed. What was he going to about Reed? The kid had spun a tale and a half; Mac wasn't surprised that he was considering journalism as a career. He had nearly suggested his talents seemed more suited for a fiction writer, or maybe a scriptwriter for one of those crime shows on television, the ones with the implausible plots and impossibly beautiful cast members. He didn't think Reed was quite ready for casual teasing yet, though.

And there was no doubt the kid had been scared. As he had told Mac what he had overheard in two separate conversations at Chelsea University, he had shown all the physical signs of severe agitation: pale, sweating, pupils dilated, and once more stinking of fear. Mac sometimes woke with that smell hovering over him like a blanket about to suffocate him. There was no way he'd mistake it.

So, whatever Reed had heard, however he might have re-interpreted it, he certainly believed it now.

Mac reached his office and spun around in his chair to look out the window. He had discovered recently that as long as he concentrated on the Brooklyn Bridge, he could avoid the glaring absence of the World Trade Centre in the skyline. Idly, he wondered what a shrink would say about his ability to focus on one thing and ignore the other.

He had a stack of new cases on his desk; he had seen them when he came in. He knew there was evidence to review, assignments to give out, people to speak to. He knew he should get his head in the work; it had always saved him before.

But he wanted to see Peyton. He wanted to talk to Stella. He wanted to prove to Reed that he didn't need to worry. He wanted Danny back in the lab, making bad jokes and crowing when he figured something out. He wanted Lindsay with her passionate magpie interest in everything, pushing everyone around her to keep up. He wanted everything and everyone back under his control.

"Mac?"

"Yeah, Sid?" He didn't turn the chair around.

"Got a minute? I need to go over some results with you."

"Yeah. Come on in. I'd have come down to the morgue, you know."

"I just wanted to review this before I leave. My shift is over in about ten minutes."

Sid showed him the results he was concerned over, and Mac gave him some suggestions for what to try next. When Sid left to return the case file to the morgue and then go home, Mac turned with a sigh to the piles of folders on his desk. Stella was in court today, he noticed, looking at the board that listed off where everyone on shift was, and even with help from the other shifts, his team was feeling the strain of Danny and Lindsay being gone.

He pulled out his phone and looked at it, deliberately scrolling down to 'Messer' in the phone list. Would Danny have his phone? Would he be able to use it in the hospital? It had probably run out of power: Danny used to be notorious for forgetting to charge the battery. At one point, it had been so bad Mac had bought him a back-up battery.

He hadn't needed back-up for a long time, though. Danny had grown up a lot in the past two years, professionally as well as personally. He had always been serious about his work, but now he was becoming more serious about his life. Mac was pretty sure Lindsay had something to do with that change.

With a sigh, Mac pushed "send" on the phone. At the very least he could leave him a message; let him know they had informed his parents, that Mac had filed his paperwork. That he didn't need to worry about anything but getting better.

"Mac?" Danny's surprised voice answered before the phone had rung one full tone.

"Danny! I wasn't sure your phone would be on. I was preparing to leave you a message."

"I just charged it up. Your call came though as I took it off the charger."

"Good to hear your voice. How are you doing?" Mac heard the slight drag of pain in Danny's voice.

"Good. I'm doing good. The doctor let me out of the hospital today."

"Really? I'm surprised. They usually want to keep you a few days after major surgery. Where are you?"

"At the Monroes' ranch. Diane Monroe, Lindsay's mom? She's a tech with nursing training, so she said I'd be better off here. I gotta tell ya', the food is certainly better here, and so is the bed. And the company is superior. It's Mac," Danny said in an aside to someone.

"What about the scenery?" Mac's voice held a tiny teasing note.

"It's pretty spectacular too. Do you want to say hi to Lindsay?"

Danny handed off the phone before Mac could say anything.

"Hi, Mac." She sounded tired and pale, if a voice could sound pale.

"Lindsay. I'm so glad you are all right." Mac had to clear his throat.

"I'm okay. Danny… Danny will be okay, too, Chris says ….You should have kept him in New York, Mac." The last was whispered.

"Lindsay? Lindsay!"

Danny's voice cut back in after a moment's silence, "Sorry, Mac. She's a little shaky still."

Mac covered his eyes with his hand. "Tell her not to worry, okay, Danny? I've got you covered. I've got both of you covered. Everything is going to work out."

"It's okay, Mac. We know."

Mac could hear a door close in the background. "Danny? Flack went to tell your parents – make sure they knew you were going to be all right."

"Yeah, I talked to them. Thanks for thinking of that." Danny said, coolly.

"It was Stella, actually. I would have gone, Danny, but you know …"

"Flack didn't let Stella go to my parents' place, did he?"

"No, she was going to stay in the car." Mac grinned at Danny's snort of disbelief. "It's okay, Danny. Flack wouldn't do anything to put Stella in danger."

"Naw, I know that. And Mac? It's okay. That Flack went, I mean. It's good, I think."

"Okay, then. I just wanted you to know. We'll deal with everything here until you get back." Mac did not want to ask when that would be.

"Wednesday. We'll be back Wednesday." Danny said firmly. "Linds has to testify Monday at Forbes' hearing. Then we expect to be cleared to go the day after. We can always come back to Montana if the prosecutor needs us, but we both have our statements on the record."

Mac noted the use of "we" with a sigh of mingled regret and satisfaction. There was no question that Danny considered them a couple. Mac wondered what Lindsay thought.

"Good, Danny. That's good. We'll be glad when you are back in New York. But no coming back to work until you're cleared by the doctors, right?"

"Yeah, yeah. Dr. Martens has already torn a strip off me today, Mac. But me being in the hospital – it was doing Lindsay's head in. She wouldn't leave, wouldn't eat. When she wasn't in my room, she was sitting with McKim. He's not expected to recover."

Danny's voice was heavy with regret; he hadn't liked or trusted McKim, Mac knew, but no one would wish this on another human being, much less a fellow officer.

The younger man sighed and continued, "At least with me here, she'll let her mom do some things. And maybe she'll eat."

"Okay, Danny. Just be smart, okay?" Mac said, a little hopelessly.

"No problem, boss. I'll call when we have our flight confirmed."

Mac hung up and, with a sigh, started on the pile of files still on his desk.

"Knock, knock," Peyton smiled as he looked up.

"Hey. I thought you were off today. I would have picked you up if I had known." Mac leapt to his feet.

"Sit. I can't stay. I have two new bodies for prelim and three autopsies to complete. I just wanted to say hi."

Mac stood up anyway and came to the door, grabbing her hand to pull her into the room and sit with him on the couch. "Talk to me for minute. They'll wait."

"What's up, Mac?" Peyton said, looking at him with concern.

"I had a visitor last night. Reed Garrett? Claire's son? He showed up at my place with a wild story. And then I just phoned Danny and talked to him. I guess I'm feeling a little … unbalanced," he admitted.

Peyton smiled. Mac had always struck her as unbalanced, so focused on his job that he often neglected other aspects of life, like food and sleep. She wondered what 'balanced' would feel like to someone like him.

"How is Danny?"

"He's out of the hospital."

"What? He should be there for at least another two days to monitor him for infection." Peyton bit her lip, wondering again about the medical system in Montana.

"He says that Lindsay's mother has training and will monitor him. I think he left so Lindsay would go home and stop spending all her time watching over him and McKim."

"Any word on McKim?"

Mac closed his eyes, "Not expected to recover."

Peyton reached out a hand and squeezed his sympathetically. They were still discovering things about each other, but she couldn't help it if she sometimes found out things before Mac was ready to tell her. Hawkes had told her about Mac's father, dying of cancer, asking for his son's help in releasing him from his pain, and Mac's inability to do it. Hawkes had been approving, quoting the Hippocratic oath at Peyton when she had demurred over whether it was the only thing he could have done.

Peyton thought again how different medicine was through the eyes of men and women. Men said things like "Life at all costs". But women, who experienced the process of creating life, knew it was not so simple. Sometimes the best way to honour life was not to be afraid of death.

Not that she would be likely to say such a thing to Mac. Death was the final battle for Mac, the final insult. He had structured his life around death even before the loss of Claire. Even now, Peyton wondered a bit despondently if there wasn't something symbolic about him being with a medical examiner.

"Peyton? You okay?"

She looked into Mac's concerned eyes and realized she had ignored him for the past few minutes. "Yes. Yes, I'm sorry, Mac. I just have a lot on my mind – we all do. I have to go back to work – if you speak to Danny or Lindsay again, tell them I'm thinking of them, would you?"

Mac watched her go, feeling as she was somehow moving further away from him all the time.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-

To: Aisha Blanco

From: Adam Ross

Subject: Club Zed

Tonight at 9:00?

A


	11. Chapter 11: Skipping the Past

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY. Poetry not otherwise referenced is original._

_A/N: Yay! Alerts are finally back up (does happy dance). Thanks to everyone who has been reading and reviewing anyway. If I didn't respond your review, please PM me and let me know – I tried to keep everything straight._

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

* * *

_Family Ties that Bind: A Skipping Rhyme_

_Mama, rock your baby to sleep;_

_Pray the Lord his soul to keep. _

_If he dies while you're awake_

_That's the last mistake you make._

_Papa, hold your baby boy,_

_Hold him up, your pride and joy._

_Keep him quiet, have no fear,_

_Do it right, no one can hear._

_But hush little baby and don't you cry,_

_Or a curse will be your lullaby._

_No one wanted you to be born; _

_No one cares for you come the morn._

_Your father's a coward, _

_Your mother's a whore_

_Your brother's a hoodlum_

_And that's the score._

_1, 2, 3, 4, 5 …_

_SMT2007_

* * *

Chapter 11: Skipping the Past

"Are you finished, Danny?" Diane began to clear the table, looking approvingly at the empty bowl in front of her guest.

"Thank you, Diane. That was excellent soup. I feel better on the outside of that," Danny grinned up at her easily.

"Well, anything has to be better than hospital food, I guess. Now, Jamie's room is still made up for you, and I'm going to suggest a lie down for both you and Lindsay. I don't want Chris coming after me if there are any relapses." Diane didn't miss the glint in Danny's eye; she knew that he knew she was counting on them both to lie down so that the other one would. That was okay; she didn't mind being transparent, as long as she got her way in the end.

Lindsay looked over at Danny with worry in her eyes. Unlike him, she had had only a few mouthfuls of soup, and was still toying with a piece of bread. "I just want to phone the hospital and check on John McKim, Mom. Then I promise …"

"Linds, Jenny will phone us here if there is any change. You can't do anything for him, honey." Diane said it quietly, but with an underlying hint of steel.

"Mom," Lindsay opened her mouth to argue, but it was the careful blankness in Danny's eyes that stopped her cold. She nodded once, shortly, and sighed. "Okay. You'll let me know?"

"Of course I will. And I'll phone at shift change as well and check in. The minute anything happens, we'll know, I promise. Your brother will be checking as well, you know. And his dad is flying in today from Sacramento. He won't be alone."

Lindsay nodded again, blinking back the tears that still seemed to come so easily. Without thinking about it, her hand reached for Danny's, and she felt the warmth filling her as he wrapped his fingers around hers.

"Come on, Messer. Let's go for our naps." She tried to smile, and was rewarded with his answering grin as he struggled to get out of the chair without letting go of her hand.

She led him up the stairs to Jamie's room. "My room is just down the hall if you need anything. Oh, I guess you know that, don't you?" She startled a slightly guilty look in his eyes, but decided not to push for an explanation. Once again, a wave of exhaustion was threatening to knock her feet out from under her; she could feel her head beginning to float, and turned away to go to her own room, leaving Danny at the door.

When she got to her room, she curled up on her bed, pulling the quilt her grandmother had made for her thirteenth birthday over her and closing her eyes. For some reason, it smelled like Danny.

"Obsessed. You really are obsessed," she scolded herself.

She knew she had to sleep; she could feel pressure building in her head, and the pain she had pushed aside and ignored for the past two days was pushing back like a bully on a school ground. With a shudder, she gave in, and fell asleep as if she had been knocked unconscious.

Danny watched her walk down the hall, and waited a few minutes more, listening for any movement in her room. When he eventually ventured to her door, he saw with relief that she was already asleep. He stood for just a moment, watching her. If he had been able to, he thought, he would have just stood guard over her sleep from the chair beside her bed. But he wasn't stupid, although some called him pig-headed. His body was screaming for relief and as he had already flushed his pain pills, sleep would have to be the cure.

Back in Jamie's room, he pulled off his shoes and lay down on his side, pulling the quilt over him and closing his eyes. He had dealt with pain before, and knew the first trick was to isolate where it hurt, then figure out why. He ran his fingers lightly over the bandage across his stomach; he could feel the itchy pull of stitches both there and on his back. Luckily, the surgeon was old-fashioned and preferred not to use staples. Underneath that surface annoyance, he could feel the scream of muscles already struggling to rebuild themselves after the insult of hot metal tearing through them.

Regulating his breathing deliberately, Danny sought sleep as if it were a suspect to be interrogated.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-

"_Mama, non il dell'armadietto. Prego no. Sarò buono. Non griderò. Per favore. Per favore. Sono impaurito dei ratti."_

"_Christ Jesus, will you listen to him? He sounds like a little Eytie instead of an American kid. Speak English, you little shit. What do you want? Tell Mommy what you want?"_

"_Don't put me in the cupboard, Mama. Please. I promise I'll be quiet. I promise I won't cry. Louie says there are rats in the cupboard and they'll eat off my fingers and my toes. Please not in the cupboard."_

"_What's going on here?"_

"_Papa, I don't want to go into the cupboard. Please, Papa."_

"_Listen to the little puke whine. He thinks we have rats, for Chrissakes. Don't I keep house better than that?"_

"_Louie, did you tell Danny there were rats in the cupboard?"_

"_I dunno."_

"_Come here, Louie! You leave you brother alone do you hear?"_

"_Ah! My ear! Leggo my friggin' ear, Dad!"_

"_Danny, you're too old to be scared of things that aren't there. Big boys of five don't cry. Dovete imparare essere un uomo, il mio figlio. Now apologize to your mother for thinking we have rats." _

"_I'm sorry, Mama."_

"_Go to bed, Danny. Louie, come and give your mommy a kiss. Look at the poor ear. A quick rub, it'll be all better. That's my brave boy, my big boy."_

"_Mo, must you treat Danny like that? He's still just a child. Mama says …"_

"_Oh, everybody be quiet. Wait to hear what Mama says. She who knows it all. Except for English of course. Six years in the bloody country, still speaks nothing but Italian."_

_The little boy's cheek throbbed in sympathetic pain as he heard his mother's head hit the wall in the hallway. He cowered in the centre of the bed, stifling his sobs. _

"_By God, I will have respect in my own home. You will not speak of my mother in that way."_

"_Hey, Danny? C'm here. I want to tell you something – havta whisper something."_

"_OWW!"_

"_That's for telling Dad. Little pissy, whining baby."_

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-

"Danny? Danny, wake up. Danny, it's okay. I'm here."

Danny's eyes flew open to see Lindsay's worried face hovering over him. Without a word, he reached up and gathered her warm body against his, holding her as a shield to ward off whatever had been chasing him through the shadowed world he had been wandering in.

Lindsay said nothing, simply pressing as close to him as she could without hurting him. She ran her hand over his face, exploring him gently until he opened his eyes and looked into hers.

When their lips met, the kiss was warm and loving, a giving and sharing of comfort. Before the flood of longing and desire that had so shocked her in the hospital could rise, though, Lindsay broke the kiss and tucked her head under his chin.

"Danny, what does 'danno' mean?"

"It's what Steve McGarrett called Danny Williams on Hawaii 5-O: 'Book 'em, Danno!'" Danny closed his eyes and concentrated on breathing in her scent.

"So, tell me why you mutter about Steve McGarrett in your sleep?" she said dryly. "You woke me up – you were yelling out."

"Sorry. Go back to sleep and be quiet," he grumbled. Pain was hitting him in waves and he was afraid that if he kept talking he might say something unforgivable.

Lindsay took a deep breath, as if to keep pushing, but he shook his head, keeping his eyes shut tight, "Please, Linds?"

She nodded once, and pulled the quilt he had pushed off in his thrashing around back over the both of them. With a sigh, she lay with her eyes open, as he twitched and muttered around her, caught once again by whatever memories or phantasms would not let him go.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-

He was early. He was always early. And Lissa, he remembered, was always late. He resigned himself to waiting; she would bounce in, laughing and apologizing, telling him the whole story of how she had been on time, really – early even – but then a shoe had broken or a bus had been late or a cab driver had misheard and some great adventure had befallen her and now here she was and she wasn't really that late, was she, and oh sorry, but she'd make it up to him next time.

Sheldon grinned. Her idea of making it up to him next time was usually to come up with an even better story.

He never knew whether the stories were true. He suspected they were. Lissa Willette was a person to whom things happened. When they didn't happen, she went out and looked for them. She had fought her way through life on helping hands and her own determination and brains. Nothing stopped her for long.

The young waitress wandered over, snapping her gum and automatically adjusting her t-shirt to show off a little more skin. "Get you a drink, sir?"

"Thanks, I'll have a pint of whatever's on tap." He smiled at her casually.

"Charming the children already, I see," Lissa said dryly, stepping out behind the waitress.

"Hey, you're on time!" Sheldon kissed her on the cheek as he pulled out her chair for her and saw her settled.

"I'm always on time, Sheldon. Whenever I show up, it IS time!" Her laugh rang out through the already crowded restaurant. People looked over and smiled. Lissa drew attention wherever she was, Sheldon thought, in the best way possible. She made people feel better about themselves without saying a word.

"So, tell me how things are going with you? Aside from the whole 'dating a freakishly tall paramedic' thing, how's your social life been?" He took a long drink from the pint glass the waitress slopped in front of him, and waited while Lissa ordered white wine.

"What social life? I'm a doctor! I only see sick people every day."

"And then there are the patients!"

Her eyes sparkled at the old joke. University, med school, residency: they had had years to perfect the routines, Sheldon thought.

"What can I get you two tonight?" The young woman had been replaced by an older man who looked a little stressed. Mulvaney's on a Saturday was always as busy as the subway at rush hour.

"Two buckets of clams and a half dozen oysters in black bean sauce. One cioppino and one seafood linguine with both red and cream sauce, please," Sheldon rattled off the order without looking at Lissa until he had finished, noting with pleasure her wide smile, lighting up her dark face.

"And lots of bread, please," she added.

The waiter repeated the order efficiently and wove his way back to the kitchen.

"You remembered."

"It hasn't been that long, has it Lissa?"

"Four years since we went for dinner together without a crowd of other people," she said, calmly.

"No way!" Sheldon was sincerely shocked. Lissa was one of his best friends; it couldn't have been so long since they had spent time together.

"Just before you left the hospital. We sat over there," she pointed to a table in an isolated corner and went on, "And you told me you had applied to the ME's office. You never really explained why."

"I didn't really know why then. I couldn't handle people dying and not being able to do anything about it, Lissa. I couldn't handle talking to the families and telling them I didn't know enough, wasn't a good enough doctor to save the person they loved." Sheldon blew out a breath he didn't realize he had been holding in.

"You were one of the best surgeons I have ever seen." Her voice remained neutral, but Hawkes could see the question in her eyes.

"I still am. But now I am looking for answers, reasons for the worst thing in the world to have happened. No one expects me to stop the worst thing in the world from happening."

Lissa nodded once, then sat back in her chair and took a sip of her wine. "So, tell me how your mom is doing."


	12. Chapter 12: Walking Wounded

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY. Poetry not otherwise referenced is original._

_A/N: Thanks to my reviewers for your responses and questions; every reaction gives me a whole new direction to follow, so if this story ends up being 100 chapters long, you only have yourselves to blame! Thanks to those who are reading as well – I hope you are enjoying the story!_

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

* * *

_The Walking Wounded_

_They called them the walking wounded,_

_Soldiers who remained on parade_

_Feet together, shoulders back,_

_Head up and gaze straight ahead,_

_While their hearts strangled with fear_

_Their minds trapped in horrors_

_So intense they would never sleep again,_

_They held themselves always ready_

_To run, to hide, to fight for their lives_

_Or for the lives of those few they still recognized_

_As human beings._

_Shellshock,_

_Battle fatigue, _

_Combat stress reaction,_

_Operational exhaustion, _

_Post-traumatic Stress Disorder._

_The name gets longer as the pain grows deeper_

_As if by naming it, like the monsters of old,_

_It can be brought to heel._

_SMT 2007_

* * *

Chapter 12: Walking Wounded

"You done, Stel?"

"Finished about 15 minutes ago. The jury seemed to be paying attention, but we'll see."

"Defense give you a hard time?"

"No. The evidence is solid. I think she's going to push for some kind of diminished capacity."

Stella heard Flack's snort of disgust on the other end of the line. "Yeah, whatever."

Stella smiled. "She's probably not wrong, Flack."

"I know people from worse backgrounds who never killed an old lady for the change in her purse, Stel."

"Yeah. Me, too." Stella sighed.

"You up for dinner somewhere?" Flack's voice turned hopeful.

Stella _thought_, "I really shouldn't do this. I need to think this out."

She _said_, "Where would you like to meet?"

"How about on the corner?"

"Which one?"

A hand reached around her and closed up her phone. "This one?" Flack's blue eyes laughed into her surprised ones.

"You know, sneaking up on a woman with a gun may not be the most healthy choice overall, Flack." She tried to say it lightly, but could feel her heart pounding.

"I'll take my chances with you, Detective. If you draw your gun on me, it'll be because I deserved it." Flack did not back away from the ice in her gaze, holding her eyes with his until she relaxed and nodded slightly.

"Where do you want to go for dinner?" she said quietly.

They agreed to try a new Thai place that neither had been to, and found a quiet corner booth far from the kitchen. They discovered a shared liking for hot curry and cold Thai beer, and Stella sat back, toying with her napkin once they had ordered.

Flack watched her, knowing she was gathering her courage to ask him something. He decided to give her a helping hand. "You want to know about the Messers, right?"

"I think it's going to matter, Don." She looked up at him, frowning slightly as she tried to explain. "Something is happening, or going to happen. Mouse wasn't the only squeaking out there."

Flack nodded. He'd been hearing things too. He just hadn't connected them to the Sassones, and so to Danny and his family until Mouse.

"I can't tell you everything, Stella, or how I know it. But here's some of the background." Flack took a quick sip of water, then sat forward to speak quietly. "You know that Anthony Messer is connected, right?"

Stella nodded; the office grapevine had never been quiet about that. "The Lucchese family, right?" she said, lowering her voice carefully as she mentioned one of the five Mafia families of New York.

"Right. Tony Messer was never much more than a wannabe. His brother Gino, though …" Flack paused as the server brought their dinners to them, and did not resume until she was safely out of earshot. "Gino Messer owns a construction company."

He could tell from Stella's thoughtful nod that he did not need to go into any more detail. Not all construction companies in New York were connected with the Mob. Not even all construction companies owned and operated by second generation Italian-Americans.

But Messer and Sons, as it happened, was.

"So, Tony was sometimes errand boy, sometimes bag man for big brother Gino, always the little brother, always on the edge. He wasn't very committed, maybe, or else he just wasn't very good at it. Anyway, Danny grew up with people always watching: the Feds when they thought something was going to go down, the NYPD when there was something going down, and the Luccheses all the time."

"And then the Tanglewood Boys. How did they factor in?" Stella concentrated on her green curry, but every nerve was straining to pick up on where Flack's deep unease was seated. There had to be some reason he was so reluctant to tell her anything about this. So far, he had only confirmed stories she had heard since Danny joined the team.

"Gino was _not_ pleased with Louie for going outside the family. Sassone's family have been linked to the Bonnano family. Pretty big rivals on the Island."

Stella whistled. "Pissing in everyone's sandbox, weren't they?"

Flack laughed, "Pretty much. Sonny had delusions of adequacy, I'm afraid. Anyway, they played around on the edges a little, caused some trouble in the neighbourhood, but never made much impact on the real wise guys. When Sassone and his thugs went away after the attack on Louie Messer, that was the end of the Tanglewood Boys."

"As far as you know." Stella completed the thought.

Flack nodded and applied himself to his pad thai. He ate silently for a few minutes, then said, "How's your curry?"

"Delicious. Try some," Stella offered, picking up a piece of chicken and holding her chopsticks out to Don. He closed his lips around the mouthful, his eyes never leaving hers, then scooped up an assortment of noodles and chicken and peanuts off his plate and offered it to her. She closed her eyes as she savoured the taste. "I think this restaurant is a definite keeper."

"Seems to be." His voice was husky as he watched her eat. "So, did you learn anything more about our pollinated girl this afternoon?"

"Text from Sid: she was pollinated in more than one way. Six weeks pregnant. COD was strangulation."

Flack winced. "Ouch. Up close and personal. We found a business card in her coat pocket; we may be able to find out who she was. It was for a clinic down in Brooklyn."

"Really? Abortion clinic?"

"Free clinic supported by a variety of organizations, specializing in women's health issues, according to their website. So, yeah, I'm thinking abortion clinic," Flack shrugged.

"We'll have to check it out – see what we can find," Stella was scooping up the last of her curry when she noticed Flack watching her. "Do you want some more?"

He grinned, "I always want more, but that's okay, you finish it up."

She laughed, "I don't think so – the guilt of seeing you waste away would be too much for me." She pushed the plate over to him and watched him eat. He was neat and quick, where she had thought he would be messy and careless. He was a constant contradiction. For all the time she had known him, she realized she knew very little about him.

"Tell me something."

"Like what?" He glanced at her.

"Something I don't know about you."

"I played basketball in high school. Got recruited to NYU for the team."

"You had a scholarship to NYU? Why didn't you go?"

"Didn't want to go to university. I was in the police academy the week after I graduated high school." He shrugged and swigged the last of his beer.

"I guess your dad was pleased." Stella toyed with her beer bottle, stripping the label off in one slow move.

"Never said. My grandmother Flack, now, she was pissed off." He pushed the empty plate away from him, then unconsciously echoed Stella, picking at the corner of the beer label, concentrating on not ripping the paper.

"She wanted you to go to university?" Stella chanced a quick look at Don.

"My grandfather and father were both cops. She didn't want me to be a cop," he hedged.

"I guess she's been a cop's wife a long time. She knows the life."

"She died just before I graduated from the academy," he said, his voice quiet and flat.

"Don." Stella dropped the bottle and reached out her hand for his. "I am sorry. I didn't know."

"Don't talk about it much. She had a bad heart. No one knew. Dad came home from night shift one morning and she was dead in the kitchen. She'd been lying there all night." Don carefully placed the bottle in the centre of his placemat, concentrating on covering the map of Thailand decorating it, and clasped his hands tightly together, ignoring Stella's. "I had been out with the boys on a bender – showed up just as the morgue van took her away."

Stella put her hand on top of his fisted ones, and squeezed gently. "I'm sorry."

"I guess that was two things you didn't know about me." He glanced at her, then turned away from her compassionate face and she couldn't help herself. She moved a little closer on the bench, ran a hand up his jaw, and touched her lips to his. He tasted of curry and fish sauce and a deep abiding sorrow.

"I am in so much trouble," she thought to herself as his arms tightened around her.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-

Text Message: A Ross to A Blanco

_Where R U?_

Text Message: A Blanco to A Ross

_Sry. somit came . 2moro? xoxo_

Adam threw his phone on the table in disgust. Club Zed was a madhouse; he'd come straight off work; and he had a headache. Now he'd been stood up.

"Hey, cutie! Want to dance?" Adam looked up into the startling face of a girl too young for bright fuchsia hair, black lips, and a spike through the bridge of her nose. She smiled at him, white teeth flashing in the lights, eyes gleaming a fluorescent pink.

"Umm, no, thank you," he stammered.

"Oh, come on! Loosen up and party with me!" She grabbed his hands and pulled him out on the dance floor, the short pink fronds of her skirt swaying temptingly around her thighs.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-

Mac sighed as he put the last file away. He had finished last week's paper work, at least. Now he just had to start on this week's.

Honestly, if someone really wanted to stop all crime in the Tri-State area, all they had to do was require the criminals to do one-tenth of the paperwork the law enforcement people had to do. That would stop them cold.

Then maybe he'd have enough time to leave the office for a few hours.

He grabbed his coat from the rack, and turned out the light. It was getting a little warmer every day, although this being New York, a freak slap of winter could show up nearly any time; Newfoundland and Nova Scotia to the north were digging out from a foot of snow dumped in less than a day. It could be their turn next.

There were few people around as he walked down the halls, heading for the elevators. Usually he took the stairs, but for some reason tonight he was so exhausted he wasn't sure he could keep moving one foot in front of the other. Anything that saved him steps would be a boon.

He pushed the button for the Main floor, and stared at the numbers counting down. His finger hesitated over another button, the one which would take him to the basement where the morgue was, but he curled his hand into a fist and refrained. Peyton needed a little time, perhaps; she had not returned to speak to him all day, and the one time he had ventured down to her office to talk to her, she had been in the field pronouncing another dead body.

He could feel the tension of the day growing as he counted down, anticipating that last moment as the door opened and he walked out alone. As he had for years. Even before Claire's death.

"_But at least you had someone to go home to." _

The voice was quiet, resigned. He closed his eyes against it, rejecting its remote sympathy.

"_You should have had children."_

He shook his head at that voice. It wasn't quiet at all. A screaming intensity underlined its every utterance.

The elevator doors swung open and he stepped off, concentrating on keeping his face inexpressive, fighting back his frustration until he was at least out in the busy crowded streets of his city. Head down, he walked straight into Peyton.

"Mac!" Her voice was breathy with shock, and a little pain, as his foot had come down heavily on hers. His hands had gone automatically to the shoulders of the person he had nearly knocked to the ground, but they tightened when he heard her voice.

He breathed her in: the subtle floral scent of her perfume that clung to her skin in spite of the lab's smells of disinfectant and preservatives; the smell of the coffee and chocolate she relied on to keep her going through a long shift. He wrapped his arms around her: slender and warm against him, a slim flame lighting his way.

When she looked up at him, shocked, he pulled her closer and covered her mouth with his. She stiffened a moment; although their relationship was known to the team, Mac was rarely demonstrative in public. Then she relaxed and responded to the need she could feel rising in him, answering him with an equal passion.

When they finally broke the kiss, Mac rested his forehead against hers. "Come home with me, Peyton."

He told himself this was the last time he would ask; this was the last time he would push her to take a step she obviously didn't feel ready to take. He told himself he could be patient; he could wait for her to be sure that she was ready to move forward with him. He told himself …

Her lips curved into a mischievous smile, "Didn't you hear me, Mac? I said yes."

_A/N2: Credit to George Carlin for the final thought in the poem about the words we use to explain what happens to a human being who sees and participates in the unthinkable._


	13. Chapter 13: Taming the Animals

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY. Poetry not otherwise referenced is original._

_A/N: Thanks to everyone who is reading and reviewing; I love to hear what you like and what you don't. Here, finally, is the answer to 'what is up with Danny and the drugs'? _

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night".  
_

* * *

**_Don't Feed the Animals_**

_The man said, "Can't you read the sign?_

_Don't feed them. They're mine._

_If you let them out at night,_

_They'll prowl and stray_

_They aren't tame, you know._

_They'll try to get away."_

_I looked through the bars,_

_Met sad wild eyes with mine._

_They begged for freedom – _

_Swore to toe the line._

_I waited 'til the man left_

_Then flung the doors wide_

_They streamed out, joyful_

_Swept me up in the tide_

_And they were free_

_Smell of musk, snap of jaw_

_Breath of predator_

_Strength of claw._

_I fed the animals; I feed them still._

_No compassion: they live to kill._

_SMT, 2007_

* * *

Chapter 13: Taming the Animals

Lissa sat back with a sigh. "I could not eat another bite!" she said, emphasizing the last word with a snap of her strong teeth.

"Are you sure?" Sheldon teased her. "Because here comes the server with – it looks like – yes, I'm pretty sure – here he comes with a dessert cart!"

"No, no, no!" Lissa closed her eyes and covered her face. "You are evil." She uncovered her face to glare at the server. "Both of you. Totally evil."

"I'm sure I don't know what you are talking about, miss. I just came to clear away your plates and to see if you would like coffee, perhaps a liqueur?" The server's face was preternaturally solemn. Now that the evening rush was over, he seemed more relaxed.

Hawkes, however, did not even try to keep the laugh out of his voice. "I'd love a coffee, thank you. And is that a raspberry chocolate torte I see on the cart?"

"Cart, sir? Oh yes, I'm sorry, the cart. I was just taking it to that table over there. I will move it immediately. One coffee, and one raspberry torte. Coffee, miss?"

Lissa glared at him again. "Coffee, yes. Please. And leave the cart. Please. And if you say one word, Sheldon Hawkes, I will fillet you with your own scalpel."

"Me? Say anything? You know I would never say anything like I thought you were too full to eat another bite!" Sheldon laughed as she turned on him ferociously, grabbing her hand as it headed towards him. "Okay, okay, wildcat. Boy, try to save a girl from herself."

"Never, never interfere between a woman and her chocolate," Lissa said primly, tucking in the corners of her mouth and trying not to smile back him. As she turned back to peruse the dessert tray, though, the dimples betrayed her, flashing at him and making him catch his breath.

"Damn," he thought.

Lissa finally made her selection and the server returned with two cups of coffee to take her order. That most important piece of business done, she dug in her purse and found a crumpled piece of paper, which she pulled out and triumphantly handed to Sheldon.

"What's this?" he asked, taking it from her and trying to straighten it out.

"Your list of worthy causes that won't take up your whole life," she said casually.

Sheldon glared at her, though half-heartedly. "I don't know why you think this is so funny. I'm serious here."

"Then why aren't you coming back to real medicine?" It burst out of her: the frustration, the worry. "You hid away in that morgue like you were an inhabitant, not the doctor. No one saw you for nearly three years, Shel. Then suddenly you're Joe Hardy, crime scene investigator. Now you want to be Dr. S. Hawkes, medical activist. Come back and work at the hospital, Shel. Use your gifts to really help people."

Lissa stopped as suddenly as she had started, putting a hand over her mouth. When Sheldon started to speak, she put her other hand up, begging him with her eyes to remain silent.

Shrugging, he folded the paper in a neat square and shoved it into his back pocket.

The server arrived at that moment, bearing two large plates drizzled with chocolate and raspberry sauce, topped by respectable servings of the decadent desserts they had each chosen. With a flourish, he placed them in front of the now silent couple, preparing to make a facetious comment. It didn't take much to pick up on the strain between the two, however, and he simply said, "Enjoy, sir, miss."

As soon as he had left, Lissa reached out a hand and said, "I am sorry, Sheldon. I had no right to spew all over you like that. You need to do what makes you happy. I know you are good at any job you take on. I didn't mean to make you feel like you have defend yourself."

"Damn it, Lissa. You always do that," Sheldon took her hand and gave it a squeeze. "You make me so mad, and then before I can do anything about it, you apologize."

Lissa's lips lifted in a depreciating grin, "Youngest in a large family, Hawkes. I learned young that a well-placed apology may save an ass-kicking."

"Consider your ass kicked," Sheldon dropped her hand and stole a bite of her mocha cheesecake before she could take her first forkful. "Didn't that big family also teach you to keep your eye on your food?"

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-

Lindsay had waited until Danny was finally sleeping deeply before sneaking out from under him and going downstairs to talk to her mother. She felt a little disloyal, as if she was breaking trust with Danny, but she knew better than to try to handle this on her own. Whatever was happening with him was more than she understood.

She found Diane in the kitchen holding something in her hand, staring out the kitchen window with a worried look on her face.

"Mom?" Lindsay touched her mother's arm, making her jump and swing around, putting her hand behind her back.

"Lindsay, why aren't you sleeping?" Diane scolded, pulling a chair out for her daughter to sit down on and pushing her towards it gently.

Lindsay caught her mother's arm and pulled her hand forward. "Mom, what are you doing with Danny's pill bottle?"

"It was on the counter. Lindsay, did he take some earlier today?"

"I gave him the bottle when he came in to phone his parents before you fed us. Why? What's wrong?" Lindsay took the bottle from Diane's hand and shook it. "It's empty?"

"It wasn't nearly empty when you gave it to him?" Diane's face was calm, but she could not mask the concern in her eyes.

"Of course not." Lindsay looked at the side of the bottle, on the label. "It says here there were 20 Demerol tablets prescribed this morning."

"Did he take any earlier, before he left the hospital, perhaps?" Diane said.

"I don't know. Mom, I'm not monitoring Danny. He's a big boy; he can manage his own medication."

Diane took the bottle and shook it gently. "It's empty, Lindsay. I'm not sure what kind of managing that is."

Lindsay say down in the chair, looking into her mother's face, then said abruptly, "Tell me the withdrawal symptoms for morphine."

Diane started to demur, to tell Lindsay that he couldn't have been on the drug long enough to get addicted, but then closed her mouth in the face of her daughter's implacability. "Restlessness, twitching, muscle spasms, hot and cold flashes … any of those sound familiar?"

Lindsay smiled, "Well, the restlessness – edginess – pretty much all the time." She shrugged, worry clouding her eyes. "He didn't want morphine in the hospital."

"Is he sleeping?"

"He was."

"Go, ask him." Diane's eyes hardened when Lindsay opened her mouth to argue. "Lindsay, he could be in trouble. Either he took them all and he's ODing, or he's dumped them. Can you think of any alternative?"

Numbly, Lindsay shook her head. "He's not ODing. I was with him a few minutes ago."

Diane nodded. "Then he dumped them. Go find out why."

Lindsay raised a woebegone face to her mother, "What if he won't tell me?"

"Find that out now, little girl. Secrets will kill you fast or kill you slow. That's the only difference."

Lindsay sat beside Jamie's bed and watched Danny sleep. He was restless, turning from side to side, muttering under his breath. She could see the dried sweat on the sides of his face; he'd kicked the quilt off himself again, and was starting to shiver. Gently, she pulled the quilt over him, and put a cool hand on his face.

"Danny?"

_He could hear her voice, and if he could only open his eyes, he would see her face. He tried, but there was no opening his eyes. Or maybe they were open and he had finally gone blind. He reached out a hand to her, but it wouldn't move. He was paralyzed; his body would not obey him._

"_Forget it, Messer. Just give it up. What do you have to offer her anyway? A dangerous past, a tarnished reputation. She doesn't need you; she proved that. You couldn't even protect yourself – got yourself shot, didn't you?"_

"_She cares about me."_

"_Yeah. You're real lovable, Messer. Your mother, your father, your brother … they all love you to death."_

"_The Monroes – they care about me."_

"_Until you screw it up. Then they'll take you apart. It'd be like eating fried chicken for Mick." _

"_Stella, Flack, Hawkes, Adam, Mac, Aiden…"_

"_You think they care about you? They'd forget about you a week after they buried you."_

"_Nonna. Sono amavo dalla mia nonna."_

"Danny. Danny, please wake up. Please? You're scaring me." Lindsay was almost whispering, afraid to raise her voice, afraid that if she didn't, he wouldn't wake up. She reached for his hand and was relieved beyond measure when he grasped it. His eyes fluttered and he gasped as he came to. His other hand came up to cup her cheek, his thumb wiping tears from under her eyes.

"Montana? What's the matter?"

"Danny, what happened to your meds?"

"Huh?" His eyes were unfocused, the blue almost swallowed by the black of his pupils.

Lindsay handed him his glasses, waiting a minute while he blinked and rubbed his eyes. He avoided looking at her, but she was not accepting that. Diane was right: secrets were not going to keep them apart. She put her hands on either side of his face and asked again.

"Danny. The bottle Chris gave you had twenty Demerol pills in it when I gave it to you. Now it's empty. What did you do?"

Danny glared at her resentfully. What the hell was it to do with her? Why did he have to explain himself to her?

A voice spoke in his head, not the usual voice, not the one that had held him hostage in his own body only a moment ago. But he knew it as well as he knew his own heartbeat.

"_La ragazza li ama, il mio nipote."_

Lindsay refused to step back, staring him down until he dropped his gaze to his hands. She could feel the struggle in him, and once she was sure he was not going to ignore her, she dropped her hands to her own lap, but did not turn her eyes away.

He made a move to sit up: be damned if he was going to do this lying on his back in her brother's bed like an invalid. She handed him one of the pillows that he had pushed onto the floor in his restless sleep. When she was sure that he was comfortable, she looked at him expectantly, perching on the side of the bed an arms' length away.

He could not meet her eyes, looking down at his hands, restlessly massaging the right hand with his left. "You know about the baseball thing, right?"

She nodded slowly, "You were playing for the minors when you broke your wrist."

"You left out the 'in a bar fight' part. I'm sure you were told that," he glanced at her quickly, in time to accept her nod. "Yeah, third favourite Messer story next to the one about how I shot an undercover cop." He looked at her defensively again. "Ya' heard that one?"

Lindsay shrugged, "Heard doesn't mean listened to."

A shaky grin flashed across his face. He held his hand out for her inspection. "I was this close, Lindsay. I'd worked at it since I was eight years old and I came this close. A hand's length away."

She ran her fingers over his hand: the long fingers and the muscles corded across the back. He shivered as he turned it over and clasped her hand.

"Like the Minhas story, it's not completely true. I was in a bar, and my wrist was broken, but it wasn't really a fight. More like an attempt at a jump-in, maybe, or a warning."

"A gang?" Lindsay kept her eyes on Danny's face, but brought her other hand up to wrap around his.

"Tanglewood Boys. It was a year or so after the night Louie …" Danny's voice broke, and he cleared his throat noisily. "The night that Louie sent me off. I guess they got worried about something, or maybe it was just a warning to Louie; he was trying to pull away at the time. I was out with some buddies from college and we made the mistake of going to the old neighbourhood. I hadn't been around much." He stopped talking for a minute.

Lindsay wanted to tell him it was okay, wanted to let him stop, but she wouldn't. It wasn't a test, she thought to herself, so much as a testimony. How much he told her was up to him. How far he let her in was up to him.

"So," Danny said on a sigh, "Long story short, one guy makes up an excuse to call me out, three guys're waiting for me outside: one sucker punch and I'm out. They gave me a stomping. I don't really know what they got out breaking my hand, but I hope it gave them some satisfaction. They left me in an alley – it took me a while to come to and get help. My buddies had run off – thought the Mafia had done a Houdini on me."

He looked at her briefly. "First favourite Messer story, hands down: that I'm connected, and I don't mean to Tanglewood."

She had been waiting for that one and simply nodded, not reacting to the bitterness in his voice. Betrayal seemed to have been burned into him young, she thought.

He sighed, almost let down by her non-reaction. "So I lie there in that alley for a while, then this kid, just barely out of high school, uniform so new it squeaks when he moves too fast – he picks me up and calls a bus. By the time I get to the hospital," he flexed his hand under hers, "The damage was too severe to fix."

This time, the silence went on longer. Lindsay sat patiently.

"The uniform came to see me once in the hospital, just to see how I was doing. He stood in the corner of the room, all spiffy and turned out, told me I'd been lucky and one day I'd find it out." Danny shook his head, and grinned as the light dawned in Lindsay's eyes.

"Flack. It was Don Flack!"

"You got it. Been a copper all of two weeks. Boots still all shiny from the academy." Danny sighed again, tightened his grip on Lindsay's hand as if to prove that he still could.

"They operated twice. No good. Nerve damage could be repaired enough for ordinary life, but not for a major-league shortstop. Dead end. My whole life stopped because I had a beer with some friends in the wrong place."

He looked her in the eye then. "I bet you can guess what happened next."

She nodded, "Vicodin? Percocet?"

"Kadian to start: a morphine compound. Then anything that would numb out the world. I fell fast and hard. Took me a year to get clean."

"You were addicted." Her voice was calm, non-judgmental.

"There's a fine line between addict and non-addict, Lindsay." His haunted eyes met hers squarely for the first time since he had woken up. "I'm never sure which side of that line I'll wake up on."


	14. Chapter 14: Going Under, Coming Up

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY. Poetry not otherwise referenced is original._

_A/N: This chapter is dedicated to those who make the hard decisions: to love, and to let go._

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

* * *

_  
**Small, Still Voice**_

_It comes like the soft spring wind_

_Slipping through the cracks in the wall_

_Built so carefully over time,_

_Like a dandelion blazoning through the shattered cement_

_Of a sidewalk losing its battle with time._

_It comes like the anarchistic scattering of crocuses –_

_Purple and yellow and white –_

_Across the trim and proper green of the formal lawn._

_It comes like the high song of the peregrine_

_Floating on the wind above the busy world_

_Calling to its unexpected mate._

_It comes like the scent of the rain_

_Like the scent of the sun_

_With the promise that spring is around the corner._

_It comes._

_SMT 2007_

* * *

Chapter 14: Going Under, Coming Up

They hit the front door like a couple of horny teenagers, his mouth on hers hot and demanding, her body under his yielding and pliant. He fumbled his keys in his shaking hand, gasping when she ran her nails over his chest, down his flat abdomen to his hips.

"Hurry up," she whispered in his ear, laughing and breathless.

"I can't concentrate on this if you are going to keep doing that," he groaned as her hands wandered around his waist to stroke up his back, under the light sweater he was wearing.

"The great Mac Taylor, defeated by a simple Yale lock," she breathed out, smirking, as she pulled his head down for another shattering kiss.

He pulled her close against him, giving in to the feeling of her mouth under his. Then he firmly stepped away from her, and turned to the delicate task of opening his own damn door, a feat he had managed to perform countless times over the years without any particular difficulty.

Peyton did not touch him, tempting though it was to make him lose control on his own doorstep. She didn't want anything to force him to re-think this decision, and though she knew it was foolish, she was afraid that even such a little thing as being unable to unlock his door could change this evening, and their relationship, forever.

When the tumblers clicked sweetly into place, Mac pushed the door open, and turned to her with a triumphant grin on his face. She couldn't help but grin back: he looked as proud as if he had cracked the case of the century. She moved back into his arms and squealed as he lifted her off her feet, and stepped into the apartment.

In the shadows under the window, a slim figure moved further back, confident that he had not been seen.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-

Her name was Pepper. She was drinking Paralyzers, which she insisted Adam join her in. She was with three friends, who Adam could swear were called Sugar, Spice, and Mustard, but after two Paralyzers, he wasn't exactly sure of his own name. They danced until the club closed at 2:00 am, then poured Adam into a cab with them and ended up in a warehouse where the party had just started.

By the time Adam made his way home, he was already suffering from a hangover, and when his phone signaled the arrival of a text message, he groaned: even 'vibrate' was too loud under the circumstances. Blearily, he tried to focus on the tiny screen.

Text Message: A Blanco to A Ross

_Where U been?_

"No idea, babe," he muttered to himself as he fell into bed. He prayed that even though he was on call, God would be merciful and let him at least sleep off the worst of this before the next flood of trace hit the lab.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-

Stella woke up with the sun shining full on her face. With eyes scrunched up, she turned away from it with a groan, and bumped her nose hard against a solid and unexpected shoulder. Her eyes flew open as she realized the sun was high in the window.

She realized it wasn't her window.

She realized it wasn't her bed.

And finally, with a squeeze around her heart, she realized the shoulder belonged to Don, who grumbled and rolled over to trap her under his other arm.

Stella froze. She never spent the night. No matter where she started the evening, no matter who she started the evening with, she always ended it alone, in her own bed, in her own apartment. Aside from the days after the attack, and one vacation she had taken to Miami a year or so earlier, she slept in her own bed, waking in the morning in the room she had painted with light terra cotta walls, decorated with cool white and blue.

Carefully, she glanced around Don's bedroom. There were clothes lying on the floor and hanging off a chair; with a grimace, she recognized that half the clothes were hers. The rest of the room was tidy to a point; although most things were put away, there were piles of papers and books on nearly every flat surface except for the large stand on the wall opposite the windows, which had a big-screen TV rivaling the one in his living room she had teased him about the night before. Laundry was piled in a corner near the bathroom, and a towel was hung on the doorknob. Through the open cupboard door, she could see a pile of unmatched socks languishing in a cardboard box on the floor.

Otherwise, the walls were white, the blinds were dusty, the sheets were clean, and the bed coverings looked like they had belonged to Don when he was sixteen. The only thing that told her for sure that this was his bedroom was the smell – the clean scent of his soap and something spicy underlying it that she thought she should be able to identify but couldn't. It just smelled like Don.

Don sighed as he pulled her closer, and she closed her eyes against the sweetness of that act. They had come to his apartment after dinner, not yet ready for the evening to end, and had moved seamlessly from drinking coffee, to cuddling on the couch watching the end of an old movie on television, to the bedroom on a wave of heat in natural progression. Stella couldn't remember a time when passion matched so perfectly with friendship, with humour, with genuine liking for another person's company.

Stella stared at Don, trying to see into his mind through his dreaming face. He had opened up to her so easily, she mused, offering her a glimpse into his heart that she had neither expected nor asked for.

She wished she had known about his grandmother. He must have carried that hurt in his heart like a burning scar the first time she'd met him, only a year after he had joined the force, when he was still on the beat trying to carve out a place for himself that owed nothing to his father, the famous Lieutenant Don Flack Sr, son himself of a famous – maybe infamous – New York cop, Detective John "Jack" Flack.

The stories that were told about the Flack family were New York legend. Not for the first time, she wondered what it would be like to be so identified with family. Any family.

She eased out from under his arm, gathering up her clothes quietly as Don rolled over, sprawling out across the bed. She stood and watched him, clutching her clothes to her chest, simply breathing with him until she was dizzy.

She didn't know what to do: her head was warning her to get out before she couldn't; her heart was begging her to stay and find out what it was like to abandon her fears.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-

"I find no merit to the appeal, Mr. Gregson. Your client may not have been the only shooter, but he certainly did shoot two of the young people he was convicted of killing. The evidence provided by the Bozeman Police Department is unequivocal. And as his youth was taken in account in the original sentencing I find no merit to your claim that his sentence should be changed. He was sentenced to serve four life sentences concurrently, with no chance of parole for at least 25 years. I see no reason in law to change the length of time now that he is serving two life sentences concurrently."

The judge brought down his gavel on the lawyer's protest, and said curtly, "Court is adjourned."

Lindsay stood up with a sigh. This time it really was over. Most questions had been answered, and those that remained had no answer. She turned to see John McKim's father standing behind her, his face drawn and grey.

"Mr. McKim. I am so sorry about John." She hugged him gently.

"Thank you. I know John would want me to tell you how proud he was of you, Lindsay; sorry, Detective Monroe. He always said that you were the best work he ever did." Mr. McKim wiped a hand over his eyes and added, in a ragged voice, "Could you come to the hospital with me? Could you … be there when …?" He could not continue.

"Yes, of course. Now?" She ignored Danny standing behind her, shoulder to shoulder with her brother John.

"Please. They say the sooner it is done, the sooner he can help other people." Mr. McKim's voice gained a little strength as Lindsay put her hand in his.

"I'll drive with you."

John Monroe and Danny Messer glanced at each other, but said nothing, just swinging into step behind her, for all the world like an honour guard. They said nothing as McKim helped her into his car, simply getting into Monroe's rental to follow her to the hospital.

"Y'okay?" Danny asked John Monroe when they turned into the hospital parking lot, his accent strong.

"I can think of a hundred snake pits I'd rather be in than this one at the moment." John said roughly.

Danny nodded briefly. "Service is set for Wednesday morning."

"I know you had hoped to be gone by then."

Danny shrugged. "She needs to do this."

John chanced a quick look at the other man's set face, "You don't."

"Yeah. I do."

Together they sat in the waiting room until Lindsay came out of John McKim's room. Her face was white, and her eyes were set wide and unblinking, as if she was afraid closing her eyes would open the floodgates. She walked straight into Danny's arms, and he held her tightly, rubbing her back and whispering nonsense words of comfort until she pulled a few inches away from him, reaching a hand out to her brother.

"Thanks for coming, John. Mr. McKim needed some support."

"You too."

"I said goodbye that first morning. I knew he was gone."

"I called Stella. She's sending our dress blues by express. They'll be here for Wednesday morning," Danny said quietly.

Lindsay looked at him in surprise. She hadn't even thought of honouring John McKim's death in the line of duty by joining in the procession in full uniform, but it was the only fitting tribute she had left to give. She felt the tears begin to choke her and when Danny handed her a handkerchief, she gave up and let them go.

Danny pulled her to a chair and sat down beside her, letting her cry against his shoulder. He looked up at John, daring him to say a word, but John just shook his head, a worried frown on his face, and walked over to the window, staring out it until Lindsay's sobs had slowed.

They all turned as Mr. McKim came down the hallway. He walked, Danny thought, like an old man: one whose hope had been lost. He had signed the papers, handing over pieces of his son to the surgeons like items at a garage sale: one liver, lightly pickled; two kidneys, gently used; two eyes, no crying; one heart, slightly bruised.

Danny shivered, holding Lindsay a little closer. It could have been her: it could have been Ted and Diane having to take that decision to make their daughter's death count for something in a world which suddenly made no sense at all. It could have been him.

He wondered who would have signed that form if Monroe and his Fed buddies hadn't dropped from the sky the way they did, whisking him off to the hospital. Who would have been asked to agree to the donation of whatever parts of him could live on without him?

He thought of the organ donor card in his wallet, now recovered from the truck where he had left it: every officer was given one at some point. Most guys he knew tossed them; it felt a little too much like tempting fate to be carrying that around in their wallets. Danny had signed his, and tucked it in behind everything else. After Louie's death, his parents had refused the request from the hospital to harvest his organs, Maureen Messer screaming that they only wanted to take Louie off life support in order to exploit him so their transplant surgeons could afford newer Mercedes.

Danny was pretty sure his mother wouldn't worry so much about his corpse being intact when he was buried.

"Messer." The sound of his name pulled him back to the corridor in the hospital. He rolled his eyes when he saw Chris Martens bearing down on him.

"What now, Doc?"

"Examining room. Now."

Danny shrugged, figuring it was easier to just give in. He kissed Lindsay on the temple, and handed her over to John before following the young doctor down the hallway.

"What's up?" Danny looked at the examining table he would normally pull himself up on without thinking. It hurt even to look at the table.

"What happened to your prescription?" Chris said abruptly.

Danny's eyes narrowed. He was sure Lindsay had told her mother some of his story; they'd spent enough time together while he spent most of Sunday sleeping. He hadn't figured on one of them grassing on him to Doc.

"You're pale, shivery, sweating. Your jaw is clenched; your pupils are dilated. It doesn't take a fucking diagnostician to work out that you're not taking your meds. You panicked every time we upped your dose …" Chris's voice, which had started fast and loud with frustration, slowed as he watched Danny's impassive face. He turned to the cupboards behind him, huffing out the air he had taken in for a good long lecture. He rifled through the cabinet until he found a bottle of acetaminophen, which he handed to Danny with a flourish.

"Non-addictive, remarkably effective. You don't get points in NarcAnon for being stupid, just clean."

Danny continued silent as he took the cap off and shook out a couple of pills, dry-swallowing them quickly.

"What do you take for a headache?" Chris asked curiously.

"A beer, a brunette, and a ball game," Danny answered dryly.

"How long you been clean?"

"Until you pumped that shit in me, over ten years." Ten years, nine months, seventeen days, to be exact. Recovering addicts were nothing if not exact.

"Still go to meetings?"

"Sometimes. I used drugs to escape. Then I found the place I wanted to be." Danny didn't want to go into all this again.

Chris nodded. "Let me look." He quickly and efficiently removed the bandages and checked both wounds, whistling under his breath at the purple and yellow marks. "The bruising is pretty, but the wounds look okay." He ran his hand over Danny's skin, probing carefully for inflammation or hot spots. "Healing is on track. You should be able to go on Wednesday, but you need to check in with your own doctor once you get back to New York, and no pushing to get back to the lab, okay? Give yourself a chance to heal properly."

Danny nodded, but said nothing, mouth set stubbornly.

Chris looked at him with resignation and played his trump card. "If you slow down, maybe she will. You both need to recover."

Danny shrugged and gave a short laugh, "Like always, Doc, I'm just trying to keep up with her."


	15. Chapter 15: Sharing the Burden

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY. Poetry not otherwise referenced is original._

_A/N: As always thanks to readers and reviewers alike; I do love to hear what you like and don't like about the story and the characters._

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

* * *

_**Tell Me**_

_Tell me a secret_

_Tell me a lie_

_Tell me you love me_

_Tell me why_

_Tell me what to do now_

_Tell me how to feel_

_Tell me what you're thinking_

_Tell me not to cry_

_Tell me how we got here_

_Tell me where we are_

_Tell me where we're going_

_Tell me you don't care_

_SMT2007_

* * *

Chapter 15: Sharing the Burden

"Mac, do you have a minute?" Stella stood at the door, Flack behind. After a day off to compare notes and talk about what they knew, they had agreed to talk to Mac Monday morning and run everything by him. As Flack said, "Either he'll agree and we'll investigate, or he'll tell us why we shouldn't be worried."

"Come in, Stel. Flack. What's up?" Mac's eyebrows raised when Flack closed the door behind them.

"I went out on Friday to tell the Messers about Danny," he stated.

Mac nodded, "I talked to Danny Saturday in Montana. He'd talked to his parents by then. He said that it was good you had gone out there."

Stella watched the two men silently communicate. She wished they would just tell her why Mac hadn't been able to go to Staten Island.

"While I was there, an old informant caught up with me, 'Mouse' Mauser."

Mac wrinkled his nose, "Mouse? He's still around? Usually someone in his line of work doesn't survive into his twenties."

"He moved back to Staten Island for his health, I think," Flack said wryly. "Anyway, he strung me a line about another Sassone brother."

Mac's eyebrows raised again, and this time he sat forward at his desk. Stella could have been in the morgue for all the interest either man showed her. "We got Sonny and the younger one, what was his name? Tommy?""

Flack shook his head, "He says this one is older. Changed his name, and went into the FBI."

Mac sat back with a silent whistle, and swung his chair around to look blindly out the window. Flack and Stella glanced at each other, but said nothing for several minutes.

Finally, Flack cleared his throat and said, "Mac? Mouse may have seen me coming out of the Messers' apartment building."

Stella looked at him with narrowed eyes; he had not seen fit to mention that to her before now.

Mac swung back around, "Why do you think that?"

Flack shrugged, "I was being watched. Didn't think about it much until later; after all, I'd been expecting it. But Mouse showed up right on cue, and he couldn't have known my car; I didn't have that one when he used to snitch for me. Either he tagged me at the Messers …"

"Or someone else did, and sent him," Stella finished. Be damned to staying quiet; she ranked equal with both men.

"And Lindsay's brother, John Monroe, is FBI, and …"

"And Danny was in Montana, meeting the family, including John," Stella finished his sentence again.

"Too many coincidences add up to trouble, I'm thinking." Flack added.

Mac looked down at his hands for a minute then at Stella first and then Flack, "Remember Reed Garrett from the Kings and Shadows case?"

Stella said, "Claire's son. Student at Chelsea U, right?"

"Journalism student," Mac nodded. "He showed up at my place Friday night. Something had scared him into a major panic."

"He tell you what?" Flack asked.

Stella was having trouble swallowing; the thought that Reed had turned to Mac when he was in trouble touched her inexpressibly. Neither man noticed her reaction.

"Eventually, after spending the night and cooking a breakfast big enough for a frat house, most of which he polished off himself." It wasn't hard to catch the merest hint of pride in Mac's expression. "Anyway, he'd overheard a couple of conversations which worried him. I thought maybe he'd just made it bigger by worrying about it, you know. Plus, he's a journalism student; looking for connections and the bigger story is second nature."

"Yeah, but he seemed like a pretty smart kid, Mac. So, what did he hear?"

"Well, Messer and Sons has been getting a suspiciously high number of construction contracts at Chelsea: the last four major contracts have been picked up by them. Reed had noticed it, and went to investigate. He overheard a couple of the workers talking about techniques for beating out the competition. They were pretty graphic: everything from bribery to disappearance. It triggered questions in him. He's a student, a kid: he went to the Internet."

"And?" Stella questioned as Mac stopped.

"He googled _Messer + mob _– led him straight to Danny and Tanglewood."

Flack sat back, blowing out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "Yeah, it was all over the news when Sonny went away; Louie was still in a coma…"

"And Danny showed up in court every day," Stella completed the statement, but not the thought which followed, "On the other side of the room from his parents."

"So Reed found out about Danny. Did he come to warn you? To question you?"

Mac shook his head, "No, he had already figured out that Danny wasn't involved. But he pushed a little on the Sassone connection, and found out that Sonny's father had been connected to Gino Messer of Messer and Sons."

"Wait a minute!" Flack put his hand up, "The Sassones were connected to the Bonnano family; Messers to the Lucchese. What connection did Messer and Sassone have?"

"It was thirty, thirty-five years ago, maybe more. Sassone Sr. was involved with Gino Messer's sister-in-law."

"Maureen Messer." Now Flack was having trouble taking in a deep breath.

Mac nodded, his eyes hooded. "That was one conversation Reed overheard: the Messer-Sassone connection. There was another."

Flack had taken out his notebook and was scribbling down information as rapidly as he could. "What?"

"One of the workers was complaining about not getting paid for a job – Reed didn't hear what the job was. The guy he was talking to said, 'Don't worry, it'll come out right. The Councilwoman is in up to her eyeballs, and the Feds are in the game. We can't lose.'"

Stella looked puzzled a moment, "The Councilwoman? We have – what –

twenty-two women on council? O'Rourke, Addison, Chambers, Arroya, Nasril, Mercados, Messaline, …"

"And Garrett. Miranda Garrett. Reed's mother."

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-

Hawkes searched through his pockets for the paper Lissa had handed him Saturday night. After they had finished dessert, they had decided to take in a late movie, then go out for coffee, and talk. There had never seemed a good time to go back to the conversation he had hoped to have with her about the list she had compiled for him of places that could use his help.

And now he had lost the paper.

He searched through his jacket pockets one more time. Dammit, this was impossible. He couldn't have lost it; Lissa would never let him live it down if she had to find all the information again. He was searching uselessly through his wallet again when the phone rang, and he answered it absent-mindedly.

"Hawkes."

"Shel? It's Lissa."

He jumped guiltily as her laughing voice sounded over the line. How did she do that?

"Hi, Lissa. How's it going?" He leaned against the kitchen table and tried to listen to her as he began an argument with himself about whether to ask her for the list again or not.

"Good. Thanks again for Saturday night. I'd forgotten how much fun hanging out with you was."

"I had fun too. We should do it again." Hawkes walked back into his bedroom to search through the clothes he had been wearing Saturday night.

"Definitely. I'll call you the next time I get a day off. Look, Shel, about that list – do you have there?"

"Umm, yeah, I think so," Hawkes said, surprised into lying.

"Good, 'cause I wanted to tell you something about the places, give you some background."

"Okay, just let me find it and you can tell me what you want." Frantically, Hawkes pulled out the pockets of the jeans he had pulled out of the dryer that morning, and nearly groaned out loud when he found the paper, folded up, washed, dried, and nearly illegible, in the back pocket.

"So, do any of those look interesting? You did look over the list, didn't you?"

Hawkes glanced over the stained paper with the words run together and across the page. "Umm, what about the Sisters' Centre for Wellness?" He rolled his eyes at the name, but it was the only one he could read clearly.

"Really?" Lissa sounded surprised but pleased. "That's not one I would have thought you'd be interested in. It's a great place, Shel – run by three women: a Jewish family practioner, a Muslim ob-gyn, and a Catholic counselor. They met at some international conference or something and decided to work together. Miriam Beniamin went to school with us; do you remember her?"

Hawkes thought back and could just about visualize a thin, intense woman with masses of bushy hair, glasses that were always slipping down her nose, and a penchant for sweatshirts and jeans. "Umm, yeah? Sure, sure, Miriam. I remember her."

Lissa's voice betrayed her doubts in his memory. "Yeah, well, she's amazing; such passion for what she does. She started the clinic and then Kathleen O'Conal came on board. About two years ago, Nasreen Suq joined them; she's from Montreal originally."

Hawkes was writing down notes frantically; he could tell he was losing ground with Lissa here with his weak responses. "Okay, so Dr. Beniamin, Dr. O'Conal, and Dr. Suq. Got it. Where is the clinic?"

Lissa sounded suspicious, "I wrote it down on the paper, Shel."

Hawkes laughed; convincingly he hoped, "Doctor's handwriting, Lissa! I can't read the numbers."

Lissa sighed and said, "Give me a minute." He could hear her rummaging around in the big old desk he had helped her salvage from a burned out office building a hundred years ago. "Okay, here it is." She read out the number and street slowly.

"Hey," Hawkes said, eyes narrowing as he wrote it down. "I was on that street, just a few days go. I didn't see a clinic in that block."

"I'm not surprised; they keep a pretty low profile," Lissa said soberly. "They've had some trouble with the neighbourhood. They provide services free for women; not everyone is comfortable with the types of services they provide."

"Abortions?" Hawkes surmised.

"Even to Muslims and Catholics. Birth control information for teenagers of any faith. They also do a lot of work with HIV status women and children. It can still be very difficult for women to get good information about the risks they run. They believe that having sex only with their partner will protect them. No one asks how many women their partner is having sex with."

"I know. Young heterosexual women in committed partnerships is one of the fastest growing HIV demographics."

Lissa sighed, "This group does good work, Shel. But they aren't popular around the neighbourhood. Not among the leaders, anyway, who are mostly men. Not until someone needs them, that is."

Hawkes thought back to the group of men standing outside the non-descript building with the glass doors. He bet that was the clinic.

"Where's the funding from?" he asked, doodling on the ruined paper. He'd transferred the important information into the notebook he carried to scenes.

"I don't know for sure. There are organizations, private donors, some international groups, I think. Are you serious about this, Shel? I just put it down because – well, because it's the kind of thing I'd like to get into."

Hawkes could hear her uncertainty over the phone lines, and his eyes opened in surprise. "I thought you were committed to your hospital work, Lissa? You put so much work into getting on there."

He could hear her sigh, "I know. And I do still feel committed, Shel. It's just that here, we see them come in, we patch them up, we send them back out. It's more like triage than medicine. I'd just like to follow a child from birth to adolescence, you know? A little bit of being a fixture in someone's life."

"Yeah, I understand." And he did understand. It was what he had run from up until now. Was he ready to commit even to a clinic, he wondered?

"Look, Shel, maybe that was a dumb idea. They may not want you anyway."

"What do you mean? Because it is a women's centre?"

"More because a lot of the patients are traditional women who may be more comfortable with a woman doctor. That was the original idea, after all."

"Yeah, I can see that. You're right; it probably isn't the best place for me."

"You should look at some of the other places I put down there. The Coalition, for example; they do great work with people living with HIV. There's another one, Outreach, that works with kids trying to get out of gangs. You'd do well with either of those groups." Lissa continued to mention snippets of names and organizations, and Hawkes tried frantically to get down enough to try and make sense of it all later.

Finally, she said, "Look, I have to go, Shel. Sorry that I wasn't more help. I guess I'm feeling a little unsettled myself these days. I seem to have projected my ideas onto you. If you need anything more, give me a call, okay?"

She hung up before Hawkes could offer dinner or another meeting. With a sigh, he put the phone down beside him, and scrubbed his hands over his face. She had seemed a little hurt, and he wasn't sure exactly why. Somehow, he had let her down, though.

His cell phone rang at that moment, and he frowned as he read the text message from Stella, asking him to meet her at an address in the Bronx. His eyes flickered from the text to the page he had been filling with information as Lissa doled it out.

The Sister's Centre for Wellness.


	16. Chapter 16: Springing Forward

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY. Poetry not otherwise referenced is original._

_A/N: As always, thanks to my reviewers – I appreciate the time and thought you put into your responses. Every one of you has some effect on what happens in the story. _

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

* * *

_Vernal Equinox_

_Spring comes to the mountains in a flash_

_A raging flood of runoff and melt_

_Ice to water in the space of a breath –_

_The earth breathes in winter_

_Blows out spring in a gusty sigh._

_Coiled tight under frosty grip,_

_Waiting for the signal,_

_Trees shake off the cover of snow_

_To reveal blossom already set,_

_Grass blanketing the ground_

_Where snow had tucked itself in only days before._

_But spring comes to the city in achingly small increments_

_Like a banker counting out coin_

_Tallying the take for the day._

_Air warms, _

_then cools_

_Trees stand stark _

_And bare_

_Then blush into green haze._

_Mud turns to grass, _

_To snowdrops _

_To tulips_

_To roses flushed red against a brick wall. _

_SMT 2007_

* * *

Chapter 16: Springing Forward

By the time Hawkes made it to the address Stella had texted him, it was mid-morning. There was a small knot of men standing outside the glass doors of what he now realized was a health centre, talking quietly among themselves, but throwing smouldering looks at the innocuous building. A discreet sign in the window had a caduceus, a symbol internationally recognized for healing, beside the name "Sister's Centre for Wellness" written first in English, then in several other languages underneath.

Flack and Stella stood at the curb, waiting for him. Stella was watching the street with her usual enthusiasm, smiling at the small children running through the crowded sidewalks. Flack was watching the street as well: the flat dedicated stare of a cop on the beat, waiting for trouble. While Stella was relaxed, leaning up again the car, Flack was obviously on guard, specifically guarding her.

Hawkes swung out of the SUV, and paused, wondering whether he needed his kit or not. The message hadn't told him why they were meeting at the Sisters' Centre. He glanced over at Stella again; she didn't seem to have her kit nearby, so he decided to leave it for now. He strolled over to where the two detectives waited, grinning as a small boy nearly ran into him, chasing a little girl.

"'Morning, Doc," Flack glanced at him as he continued to scan the street. Stella smiled at him brightly, as if to soften Flack's brusqueness, but Hawkes didn't mind. One of the jobs of the officers on duty was to protect the CSIs; he found it hard to argue with.

"What have we got?"

"We just need to question the staff about a patient who may have been in; she had a business card from this centre in her pocket. She was the one with the bee pollen?" Stella tipped her head inquisitively, checking to see if Hawkes had heard about it.

He nodded, "Six weeks pregnant, manually strangled, face covered in enough bee pollen to fill a couple dozen hives? I looked over the files last night." He often accessed files from home when he couldn't sleep; one more reason he needed a new hobby. "So what do you need from me? Surely Flack and you could handle asking questions?"

Flack looked down on the shorter man with a smirk, "We can do the questioning, Doctor. You're here to translate the answers."

Stella pushed herself off the hood of the car, laughing. "We did think that you might get some answers we wouldn't, Hawkes. That okay?"

Hawkes nodded casually. It would be interesting to see what was going on, and maybe he could reclaim some ground with Lissa if he told her what he thought of the centre, showed her that he had paid attention to what she had said.

As they walked through the doors, Hawkes glanced back over his shoulder at the group of men still standing on the street. They were not talking now: just standing watching the three NYPD officers walk in. There was never any question, Hawkes though, that Don Flack was a cop. He breathed it out like CO2, without even noticing. Stella and Hawkes himself, he knew, may be presenting the watchers with a little less obvious profile, especially without their kits.

Flack reached the door first and held it open for the CSIs. He still managed to get in front of them to the receptionist's desk and flipped open his badge, asking to speak to one of the administrators.

"Hawkes? Sheldon Hawkes?" It was an unexpectedly deep voice that boomed at him from down the hall, and he turned quickly to answer it.

"Miriam Beniamin?" He had remembered accurately, he now thought, but nearly 15 years on, the person had changed. She was still intense, but no longer thin, having rounded out into a comfortable matronliness that she carried with dignity. The once bushy hair was cut extremely short, shaped closely around her head, and the once casual jeans and sweats had been changed for a well-cut suit in a neutral gray, covered by a traditional white doctor's coat.

"Good to see you," she took his hand and kissed him on the cheek. "Lissa Willette was just talking about you last week. How are you doing? Coming back to private practice?" Her eyes sparkled mischievously, and he smiled back as he showed her his NYPD badge.

"Not yet, Miriam. This is Detective Don Flack of the NYPD and Detective Stella Bonasera of the Crime Scene Lab. I'm here in that capacity as well."

"Well, I suppose I should be glad you are not here as an ME," Miriam sighed. "Come into the lounge; I assume you have some questions."

Flack waited until they were in a more private space before pulling out the morgue picture of their victim. "Doctor, have you seen this woman before? She had a card from this centre in her pocket."

"She's not one of mine, no. But we have several doctors on staff. She's dead?" The doctor's voice was flat.

"Found in the park on Saturday: strangled. No one is looking for her yet." Flack didn't mention the pollen. Always keep something back for later was his policy, even when he had no reason to believe the person he was interrogating was a suspect.

Dr. Beniamin sighed, clucking her tongue in sorrow. "She looks young. Let me see if anyone else knows her. May I take the picture?"

"Why don't we go with you?" Flack suggested.

"Yes, of course. I'll have to see who is in today. Maybe we'll start with Dr. O'Conal; she's our counselor, and many of the women see her first, before seeking out medical help." She led them down a corridor to a bright atrium leading to a courtyard. She smiled at their surprised faces. "Pretty, isn't it? People often forget that these small places still exist in New York – remnants of a more leisured time."

A small woman was sitting on a bench surrounded by children, her red hair flashing even in the weak sunlight which filtered through the tall buildings. She shooed them off when she saw Dr. Beniamin coming, "Off with you now, go on! You need to find something to do for a few minutes." She reached out a hand to Stella first when the detectives reached her, "Dr Kathleen O'Conal. This looks like a delegation of some sort."

Dr. Beniamin introduced all the detectives, and explained why they were there. Dr. O'Conal sighed at the pretty face now dulled in death, and handed the picture back to Flack. "She was in. She didn't come to see me, so I don't know her name. She went to Nasreen," she explained to her partner.

"You recognize her even though you didn't speak with her yourself?" Hawkes questioned.

"I have a good eye. I watch the people who come in, try to figure out what kind of trouble they are likely to bring behind them." Dr. O'Conal's voice was dry, but Hawkes was impressed by her stance.

She certainly looked like she could handle most kinds of trouble. Although not tall, she carried herself lightly on balanced feet, as if ready to move in any direction. She'd been trained in martial arts, Hawkes was sure. He wondered how often she had been forced to employ them. Her stance went oddly with the sweet round face with its dusting of freckles, and the prayer beads with a small crucifix attached prominently hanging from her belt, which she fingered when thinking.

Flack was writing in his notebook. "Nasreen? That would be Dr. Nasreen Suq?"

Dr. Beniamin nodded her head, "Yes. She's the third partner in the clinic. I'll have her come out here." She signaled to one of the smaller children still hanging around Dr. O'Conal, and sent her off running to find the final member of the team.

Hawkes said, "Miriam, you said you had several doctors on staff. Should we talk to some of the others?"

She shook her head, "If they saw a doctor, Nasreen will have supervised. Most of the doctors who work here are not licensed in America. They come from other countries with medical degrees, but cannot be hired as doctors. We hire them under various programmes: internships and the like. They can keep their skills up while they go through the accreditation process."

"A little risky, isn't it? Letting people who aren't doctors practice medicine? In fact, it's illegal," Flack's raised eyebrow was the first step in what could become an escalating argument.

"Not at all, Detective," a cool voice broke through the conversation. "It is like a teaching hospital; students' actions must be signed off by a licensed physician. I assure you that we put no one in danger here in this clinic."

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-

To: Aisha Blanco

From: Adam Ross

Subject: Saturday night

So what happened that was so much more important than meeting me Sat? Yeah, sure I ended up with some other people. That's usually what happens at a club. You don't want that to happen, you show up.

How do you know what happened anyway? If you were there, why didn't you come over?

I don't get the game, A. Give me some hint, at least, about the rules I'm playing by. Every time I work them out, you change them on me.

A

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-

"_Hey – I'm not in. Either that or I'm screening my calls (just kidding Mom!). You know what to do!"_

_BEEP!_

"Hi Reed. It's Mac. Mac Taylor. I just wanted to see if you were all right. Call me when you get this, okay? You have the cell number."

Mac put down the receiver with a little frown. He hadn't heard from Reed since he'd dropped him off at Chelsea U Saturday morning. It wasn't like he was checking up on him, Mac assured himself. The kid had managed quite well without Mac Taylor in his life this long, after all. He was just a little concerned.

He had meant to call him earlier, but his weekend had taken an unexpected, if pleasant, turn on Saturday evening. It had taken Peyton and him about ten hours to make their way back out of the bed they had fallen into when he finally managed to get his door unlocked. For a moment there, he had had a superstitious feeling that the very house was locking her out, but that had left him the minute they had stepped over the threshold.

He indulged himself in a grin and a little shiver at the memory, then did his best to push it away for contemplation at a more appropriate time.

He swung around to look out the window at the bridge, crowded as always with early afternoon traffic. Stella, Flack, and Hawkes were trying to get an ID on the dead body from the park; Adam was working on trace from a robbery; ten other cases had come in since he had booked in that morning. He could give Stella and her team another few hours grace; then he had to pull her off to deal with any one of several pending cases.

He sighed and rubbed his eyes. Danny would be out for at least a month, according to Dr. Martens, who had phoned him after filing a report with the Duty Captain's office. Dr. Martens said he just wanted to make sure that there was no confusion; if Danny returned to work earlier than the month, he may never recover properly. And Lindsay, her childhood friend had pointed out in an equally determined voice, was neither physically nor mentally prepared to return to work yet either.

Mac swung back to his desk; there was no help for it. He was going to have to shuffle more teams and try to pull people in from other shifts. He hated doing that. People worked their own routines; adding new team members always slowed things down. They had more or less successfully integrated Detective Jillian Penn from the day shift, plus Detective Rob Fischer. More than that was going to put a strain on all of the existing teams.

Mac sighed and glanced at his cell phone lying on the desk beside him. Why didn't the kid call him back? Then at least he could put him in the back of his mind, along with Danny and Lindsay still in Montana, with the Messer family history, with his own involvement in that, with Stella and Flack as a couple…

Mac gave up and went to the break room to get coffee – the universal cure for a headache brought on by having too many people in his life, on his heart.

Behind the closed door of his office, his cell phone rang twice, then went to voice mail.


	17. Chapter 17: Disturbing the Peace

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY. Poetry not otherwise referenced is original._

_A/N: I appreciate the reviews, the questions, the ideas, and the continuing support of those who read the story. Thank you all._

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

* * *

**_The Incarnation_**

_You speak and I am filled_

_With joy, with sorrow,_

_With knowledge of life,_

_With taste of death._

_You speak and I am filled_

_With despair, with peace,_

_With awareness,_

_With passion._

_You spoke: I was replete,_

_But now your silence_

_Is all that fills me._

* * *

**Chapter 17: Disturbing the Peace**

As in many older parts of the city, the brick office buildings and small apartments hid the peaceful little courtyard in the centre of the block. The small group of adults was gathered around the bench, talking, while the children played quietly under a small cluster of trees by the fence. They swarmed around the young woman as she walked into the sunlight, asking soft questions in a variety of languages, darting quick nervous glances at the unfamiliar visitors. "Go, darlings," she said gently. "Yes, yes, I will come and talk to you later. Yes, I promise."

The three detectives seemed out of place in this quiet place: an uncomfortable reminder that the city did not always offer safe havens. Her calm voice with its light French-Canadian accent and Arabic formality was much more in keeping with the early spring air than Flack's sharp questioning.

Hawkes turned and observed the newcomer. Like her partners, she was short, perhaps a head shorter than Stella. Unlike the curvy Miriam or athletic Kathleen, though, she was very slim, almost childlike. She wore a bright green tunic over matching wide trousers, covered by the same white doctor's coat both the other women wore. Covering her head and shoulders, she wore a white headscarf, what Hawkes thought of as a _hijab_. It emphasized dark almond-shaped eyes touched with a hint of humour and skin the colour of café au lait.

She continued quietly, addressing Flack's comment, "We believe in helping the community in every way possible, Detective. That includes assisting those trained in other jurisdictions to apply their skills here."

Hawkes glanced away, afraid he may have been staring, and noticed that Flack, having given Dr. Suq a quick look over, was also carefully restricting his usual watchful gaze to her face.

"Dr. Suq? Nasreen Suq?" Flack said, waiting for her nod before going on. "I'm Detective Flack, NYPD. This is Dr. Sheldon Hawkes and Detective Stella Bonasera from the Crime Lab. Have you seen this woman? Did she come to the clinic?" He handed her the picture.

Dr. Suq sat down on the bench as if a sudden weight had been handed to her. Dr. O'Conal sat beside her, one arm wrapping supportively around her shoulders.

"Oh. Yes. Yes, she came in late last week. Thursday, I think. I will check the book."

"We'll do that in a minute, okay, Doctor? What did she come in for?" Flack's pen moved quickly across his notebook.

"She was pregnant – just six weeks. She came to discuss her options."

"You mean abortion?" Flack's voice remained cool, but Dr. Suq's eyes flashed as she glanced up at him.

"That would be one of the options we discussed, yes. Of course."

Hawkes stepped in, "Do you perform that procedure here?"

Dr. Beniamin looked at him over her partners' heads, "Yes. We have a fully equipped surgery. We do perhaps one or two a week. We much prefer earlier prevention, but in a neighbourhood like this one, it is not always possible."

Stella asked, "A neighbourhood like this one? What do you mean?"

"We work with three very traditional populations here, Detective Bonasera. Orthodox Jews, Catholics, and Muslims. Oh, of course there are many others that use our services, but those three groups are part of the reason for the way we have structured our practice." Dr. Suq's voice remained calm, but Hawkes could see that her hands were tightly clasped together, the knuckles white. Stella had taken the picture back when she asked her question.

"The adults are often struggling to uphold their values, their culture, in a new country," Dr. O'Conal went on. "The young people, though – they live in a new world, one in which tradition may be seen as repression. They want to break free – to explore new possibilities."

"On the other hand, some young people cling even tighter to the old ways, while their parents reject all differences in order to be accepted as American. Issues of pre-marital sex, birth control, intercultural relationships: all present potentially devastating roadblocks for families. We try to mediate between the generations, and between neighbours. It is not always an easy place to stand," Dr. Beniamin completed the statement.

Flack looked down at the three women, who together presented a pretty solid front. "This woman here, specifically," he pointed to the picture in Stella's hand. "What kind of mediation did you have to do for her?"

Dr. Suq looked at the picture again, sorrow filling her eyes. "Her name was Caitlin; at least that is what she told me. They do not always use their own names, Detective. She did not give a last name, but she did give us a medical insurance number, I think; I noticed when I filed the paperwork. She was Catholic; did you find her crucifix?"

Flack shook his head.

Dr Suq sighed, "It was a remarkably beautiful one – a gift from someone she loved and trusted, I believe. Gold, with filigree work, on a thin gold chain, perhaps 24 inches long. She held onto it the entire time I was examining her."

"Would you recognize it again if you saw it?" Flack asked.

"Yes, I think so. She told me she had a boyfriend, and I asked if she had spoken to him about the pregnancy. She said the boyfriend was not the father – could not be the father."

Dr. Suq looked up, but it was to Hawkes she spoke, not to Flack. "She said she had been forced… or coerced. She wasn't very clear in her own mind about what had happened, but she had been a virgin before that incident and had been with no one since. And before you ask, Detective," she looked at Flack then, "No, she did not report it."

"Did she tell you who it was?" Stella's voice was quiet.

"She said it was a priest at her church. She would not tell me his name."

"The name of the church?"

"No. She was afraid to tell anyone; she did not think anyone would believe her. She was afraid to tell her boyfriend. She was terrified of having an abortion; to her it was an unforgivable sin. When she left, she was still unsure what to do. I asked her to come back today or tomorrow. I had hoped to see her this morning."

"Dr. Suq, what advice did you give her?" Stella asked.

The young woman looked straight into Stella's eyes, "I told her not to have the abortion."

"If abortion is against your principals, Doctor, why do you work here?" Flack asked.

"I perform abortions when required, Detective, without too much strain on my conscience."

"As do I," Dr. O'Conal said. At Hawkes' surprised look, she said, "I am a licensed physician as well. I practice when needed."

"Although Islam agrees with the Catholic Church in regard to its stand on abortion," Dr. Suq went on in a firm voice, "My primary concern is always for the well-being of the patient. We have counselors and support groups for whatever choice women make. But there are no simple answers, and we must advise women according to their needs and characters."

She reached out a hand for Caitlin's picture again, and ran a gentle finger over the closed eyes of the young woman. "I advised Caitlin not to go ahead with the abortion because I believed it would destroy her emotionally. Having a child out of wedlock, the child of a priest, one ordained by God, the one who took her virginity ... the situation was impossible no matter which way she looked. And – well – she did not seem to me to be a strong person in many ways. Her faith was tearing her to pieces as it was. Adding what to her would be the mortal sin of abortion could only have made things exponentially worse."

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-

John Monroe watched Lindsay's face as Danny walked towards them, and he felt a pang. For so long, Lindsay had hidden her feelings behind that beautiful, deceptive smile: the one that lit up her face and left her eyes untouched. What was it about this guy that had finally cracked through that protective wall to the frightened, broken child inside?

He stood back to let Danny enfold her in his arms again, and turned away from the naked emotion on the other man's face. Perhaps he wasn't reaching her. Perhaps they were reaching out to each other.

After a moment, he cleared his throat, and said, "Linds, there's nothing more to do here."

She stepped away from Danny, wiping her eyes, and nodded. "We can go."

"You chauffin' us, Monroe?" Danny asked lightly.

John turned and favoured him with his best FBI agent stone face, which phased the grinning New Yorker not one bit, "You better enjoy it while you can, Messer. I've been called back to Quantico, Linds. I'll drive you out to say goodbye to Mom and Dad; then I have to be on the next plane out, I'm afraid."

Lindsay's eyes filled with tears again, but she just nodded.

Once in the car, she curled up in the back seat and fell asleep almost as soon as the car pulled out the hospital parking lot.

"She'll be okay," Danny said quietly, after several minutes of watching John's worried eyes checking on her through the rear-view window.

"Yeah," her brother sighed.

"She will," Danny insisted. "She's tough, John. Tougher than you guys maybe see." He hesitated a minute. What did he know about families like this one and how they functioned? But he knew what he would want to hear in this case.

"She was on the street when a Marine reject decided to prepare New York for a terrorist attack," Danny spoke low, not sure how much of this story would be new to her brother. "There was a street festival going on – kids, families, food, you know? New York in the summer, man. Mac calls her, tells her to get everyone away from the building. He'd found a bomb, but there wasn't time for him or Flack to get out. They got caught in the blast."

He closed his eyes against the memory of that image; Flack lying in the debris, split open like a slaughtered animal, Mac's hands red with his blood. John said nothing; he knew, of course, that it had happened. But Detective Monroe had not been mentioned in the reports he had seen.

"She'd managed to get most people moving in the right direction, but she was thrown a good ten feet when the bomb went off. By the time we got there, she was organizing the rescue parties, directing the EMTs, and trying to get hold of Mac on his cell. Blood all over her face, could barely breathe for the cracked rib where she'd hit a table. Didn't even slow her down."

"Shit." Danny breathed out carefully and took the final step off the precipice, "I thought my heart had stopped when I heard the call over the blower. I thought my fucking heart had stopped until I saw her still standing. But then … there was the Ghedi case. She tell you about that?"

John shook his head, glancing in the rear-view mirror reflexively. She was still sleeping, turned sideways on the seat, dark shadows showing under her eyes.

Danny cleared his throat. "We had these three girls knock over Tiffany's. They accidentally picked up blood diamonds belonging to a real bad guy, who wanted them back. He killed one, held the other, demanded the third bring everything to the apartment. We caught her going in. Lindsay took her place."

John hit the steering wheel with a clenched hand, but spoke in a strangled whisper. If Lindsay woke up, he knew she would shut down this conversation fast. "How the HELL did that happen? She's not trained; where were your plain clothes?"

Danny shook his head, the pain still evident in his eyes. "We had four minutes. She wouldn't listen to reason."

John let out a breath, "She had to save the girl."

"Yeah," Danny nodded. He got that now.

John's foot hit the accelerator and for a few minutes, Danny just hung on for the ride. Then the speed slacked off and John was able to ask him to go on, his voice nearly normal again.

"She was made as soon as she walked in; he had a picture of the three girls. But the bag with the diamonds was booby trapped with a flash bomb; she dropped it and we hit the door." He didn't tell John that he had been on the move several seconds before anyone else; he figured Lindsay's family knew far too much about him as it was. Even Lindsay didn't know it, unless Stella or Flack had told her. They had never actually talked about that incident.

"She saved the girl's life – knocked her to the floor when the bomb went off and protected her. It was a neat operation. She should have received a commendation for it."

"Why didn't she?" John was able to keep his voice merely curious.

"The brass hadn't approved the op. Flack and Stella had to play the whole thing by ear." Danny managed, just barely, to keep the resentment out of his voice. "She didn't tell anyone in the family?"

John shook his head. "She wouldn't. Nothing will ever make up for it, you see."

Danny nodded. "One day, it will."

"And how was your heart doing when you hit the door?"

The question sounded casual, but Danny knew his answer was going to go down in the family annals. "Get this wrong, Messer, you might as well walk now," he thought.

He took a deep breath and said, "It may never beat on its own again."

In the back seat, Lindsay's eyes filled with tears.


	18. Chapter 18: Taking the Blame

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY. Poetry not otherwise referenced is original._

_A/N: Although I happily acknowledge creation of the cast of OC thousands that keep showing up in this story, there is one character I cannot take credit for: Natalie Chance properly belongs to Prefect Rachel, and the CSI:NY story "His Boys". Thanks for the loan, sweetie!_

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

* * *

**_Love is a Burden_**

_At the heart of every life_

_Runs a rhythm strong and deep._

_In times of joy or strife_

_That's the beat that we must keep,_

_And the lessons that we learn_

_Form the core of what we know:_

_Knives will cut, fire burn,_

_Lies will find you, quick or slow. _

_At the heart of every song_

_Is a burden soft and low,_

_Ayres in harmony move along_

_But the drone remains below._

_And for some, that drone is love, _

_But for some, that drone is fear,_

_And the tune that plays above_

_Reflects the drone we barely hear._

* * *

**Chapter 18: Taking the Blame**

"So, you figured she'd been stepping out on you? That it, Jason? You follow her to the clinic, you hear the rumours about what they do there, and you – what? Follow her into the park and strangle her?"

"No, no, that's not how it happened. I loved her. She was my whole life. I loved her."

Flack looked with distant pity at the pathetic boy slumped in the chair, bent over with his head on the table. He hadn't been hard to find after all; once they had tracked the medical insurance number the girl had automatically filled in on the forms, it had been a simple process, although it had taken him a day to get through protective family members, reluctant at first even to admit the girl was missing, or that she had a boyfriend. Just the usual plod-and-dig policework, he thought.

Caitlin Marie O'Leary – didn't get much more Catholic than that, he thought with a sigh. And boyfriend Jason Johnson, head altar boy at St Augustine's, head boy at St Joseph's Academy his last year, only two years ago, was cut from the same altar cloth.

"You knew she had gone to the clinic?"

"No," the muffled voice rose from the table.

"You were seen, Jason. You stand out in that neighbourhood, you know. We found several people who recognized your picture. You followed Caitlin, fought with her."

"No, no. That's not true. I loved her. I could never hurt her."

"You can keep saying that, Jason," Stella said as she came around the side of the table and put a crime scene photo gently down beside him. "But we can put you at the clinic. We can put you in the park. See – these are your shoe prints. And we can put your hands around her throat. You may have loved her, but you killed her anyway."

"No! No!" The boy sat up and went to shove the picture away, but stopped as he got a good look at the photo. "What's that all over her face? Why did you do that to her? What's that all over her?" His voice rose to a scream.

"It's not what we did, Jason. It's what you did. Were you trying to purify her? Heal her? Why bee pollen?" Flack watched the boy carefully as he snapped the questions at him. He would be prepared to swear that Jason's shock at seeing the pollen-covered face of his girl was genuine.

Stella dropped another picture down on the table, this one with Caitlin's face clean, the livid marks of fingers standing out strongly on her skin.

"Tell me that's not your hand print."

"Caitlin. Caitlin. Why did you do it?" The broken whisper squeezed out of him, and Stella and Flack shared a look of sad satisfaction.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-

"May I speak with Detective Taylor, please?" The young girl stood in front of the desk sergeant, looking scared but determined.

"I'm sorry, miss, he's not in at the moment. Can I leave him a message?" The desk sergeant barely looked at her, although if asked, he could have given a perfect physical description of her: 5'5", brown hair shoulder length, brown eyes, slim build, black yoga pants low on narow hips, short pink hooded sweatshirt with Chelsea U emblazoned across her chest, late 'teens or early 20s.

"Yes... No… I don't know." She turned to leave, then seemed to steel herself to try again. "Is Detective Bonasera in?"

Now the sergeant did look up, an inquisitive light in his eyes. "Is this about the Central Park case? Caitlin O'Leary?"

The girl nodded firmly, and was ushered through the intimidating rabbit warren that led to the lab.

"Detective Bonasera? This is Natalie Chance. She has some information about the O'Leary case."

"Thanks, Juarez." The detective turned from the board where she had been filling in information. "You have some information for us?"

"No." Natalie dropped into a chair, uncomfortably averting her face from the detective's sudden attention. "I lied. I wanted to see Detective Taylor, but he wasn't here and I remembered your name from Reed and I had to talk to someone so when the sergeant asked if it was about the O'Leary case, I said yes and I just don't know what to do!"

"Well, you could breathe for starters," Stella said, the beginnings of a smile touching her eyes, though her face remained serious. "Wait a minute, did you say Reed? You mean Reed Garrett? You know Reed? Natalie, was it?"

The girl nodded miserably, "Yes. He's my boyfriend. I know he sees Detective Taylor sometimes, so I thought he might be able to help me… But he isn't here." Her lip quivered a minute, but she bit down on it, breathing for a minute before looking up at Stella with drowned brown eyes. "Could you get a message to him for me? To Detective Taylor, I mean?"

"Look, Natalie, tell me what you're worried about, and I'll see if I can help you."

Natalie stood up and shook her head firmly, "No. I shouldn't have come. It's just… Reed. Detective, could you tell Detective Taylor that Reed is… investigating… the construction going on at Chelsea? He seems to think… I don't know. I don't know what he's thinking, but I'm worried. He's freaking me out. Just… ask Detective Taylor to talk to him about it? I mean, really talk about it. Please? I don't want anything to happen to him."

Stella nodded, "You got it, Natalie. I'll let him know right away, okay? Wait," she put out a hand to stop her as she turned to go, "Give me a number or a way to get in touch with you."

Natalie grabbed the paper and pen Stella handed her and scribbled down a cell number. In return, Stella handed her a card.

"Call me if you need to, Natalie. Any time, okay?"

Stella asked a tech to show the girl out, and frowned as she watched her leave. By the time all the evidence had been processed, it had taken four days to crack the O'Leary case, and she was already working on five other cases. Mac had dumped another two on her desk that morning, apologizing as he left for the next crime scene. She hadn't slept in her own bed since Friday night: Saturday she had stayed at Don's (a fact she still had not dealt with), Sunday she had been on the night shift, Monday she had been finishing up a double and ended up sleeping a couple of hours in the break room.

Now it was Tuesday morning; she felt stupid and gritty-eyed. She decided to send Mac a message now before she forgot she had even seen Natalie.

Text message: S Bonasera to M Taylor

Natalie Chance nEdz 2C u - worid bout Reed. Cll

She pushed send on the phone, and, putting Natalie in the back of her mind, turned with a sigh back to the O'Leary board.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-

Danny lay blinking in the bed he was starting to think of as his. The sun was streaming in through the window and he could hear the sounds of the busy ranch life starting up around him. He recognized the sound of Ted's truck driving out of the yard to go check on fences before going into town; it seemed to Danny ranchers could talk for endless hours about fences.

He stretched cautiously; although the wounds still hurt like a son of a bitch, he could at least take in a full breath without wanting to whimper. He tried not to move too much; Lindsay was curled up against him, still sleeping, her face calm and peaceful as he had not seen it for days, her hand clutching his t-shirt.

They had come back from the hospital Monday afternoon, wrung out, only to find the whole family had shown up to goodbye to John. Lindsay had seemed better with all her family around, so Danny had ignored his growing exhaustion. Eventually the impromptu family party had slowed down when John had laughingly complained they were going to make him miss his plane.

He had said goodbye to his brothers and Jamie's family, hugging his parents and teasing his mother for crying. He had hugged Lindsay hard, whispering in her ear something that made her blush and blink back tears.

Then he had turned to go, saying casually, "Walk me out, Messer?"

When the two other brothers had joined in the procession, Danny had felt a clutch of fear in the pit of his stomach, not helped by the panic that had flashed over Lindsay's face.

"Hey, look, guys," he had tried feebly, "I'm happy to take you on one at a time, but I don't think three against one is very sporting."

"Shut up, Messer," Mick had growled, and Danny had obediently shut up until they reached the car, where the three Monroe boys had ranged up, cutting off sight of the smaller man from the house.

"You in love with Lindsay?" Jamie had started first, as eldest.

Not trusting himself to speak, Danny had simply nodded.

"You going to do right by her?" Mick had added.

Danny had crossed his arms over his chest and raised his eyebrows. "Whatever she wants," he had said, putting emphasis on the word 'she'.

"You going to protect her?" John had said.

Danny had shaken his head that time, "She's got my back. I got hers. No matter what else happens or don't happen, that don't change."

Three pairs of brown Monroe eyes had measured the man in front of them, eyes fogged with pain, face drawn with fatigue, but rolling up on his toes, ready to take them all on if necessary. Then they had looked at each other before breaking into identical Monroe grins. Jamie had clapped him on the shoulder, gently, and said, "Welcome to the family!"

Danny had gaped at him a minute, then a matching grin had slowly moved over his face. "Shit, man," he had sighed, as he shook hands with each of Lindsay's brothers, "I thought for sure you were going to kill me."

Mick had shaken his head, eyes dancing devilishly, "Can't be bothered to break a sweat, boyo. You hurt Lindsay, she'll take care of you all by herself."

Danny had looked at the front porch of the Monroe house, where Lindsay was standing staring at them all with a frown on her face. He had waved to her and was rewarded with the sweetness of her smile.

"You got that right," he had said under his breath.

And now here he was, sleeping in one brother's bed, with Lindsay warm and soft in his arms. She had snuck in after her parents had gone to bed, sliding in beside him, wrapping her arms around him and holding on. He had slept the night through without a single nightmare.

So had she.

He watched her breathing, and hurt with love. It was too big, too much. He didn't know what to do with it all. Where to put it all. He had never known anything like this. It was like trying to play a song he didn't know on an instrument he had never seen in front of a crowd used to perfection.

He pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes, his hand tracing the curve of her cheek. It wasn't enough that he wanted her, fiercely, could taste her in his mouth, could feel her body writhing under his. It wasn't enough that he wanted to look after her, be with her, protect her. No, he had to want something more, had to see her with a baby in her arms, one with her soft brown hair and his blue eyes. He had to see a house with children's toys in the yard, a baseball bat leaning up against the porch, kids' bikes on the lawn. He had to see a bright kitchen like Diane's with sunlight streaming in through the window…

He closed his eyes and drifted back to sleep.

"_Che cosa state facendo per il pranzo, Nonna?" A little boy sat on the counter, a single shaft of bright sunlight from the small window turning his brown hair golden._

"_Vitello del Parmigiano e tagliatelle, con le carote ed il broccolo, mio bambino."_

"_I don't like broccoli, Nonna. Can we have peas instead?"_

"_Broccoli better – is fresh. Frozen food no good." The older woman rubbed her hands dry on the apron always tied around her waist. _

"_Nonna?"_

"_Si, il mio Daniel piccolo?"_

"_Why does Mama want you to speak English? You're not very good at it," The boy's blue guileless eyes stared into his grandmother's brown ones._

_Lucia Messer sighed, "She wish me to be American, little one. Ritiene la vergogna."_

"_Che cosa fa la media di vergogna?" Danny's brow was furrowed with confusion._

"_Vergogna means shame, il mio figlio." His father's heavy voice filled the room, and Lucia watched in resignation as the little boy's eyes mirrored the fear she felt in her own._

"_Sia calmo, Antony. Lascilo essere."_

Danny woke with a shock to Lindsay calling his name softly, a hand to his cheek. He blinked groggily; the dream had been so vivid he could smell his _nonna's _veal parmigiano cooking for a minute, before the scent morphed into Lindsay's lighter citrus and floral scent. He tightened his arms around her and lowered his mouth to hers.

She stiffened a moment, then melted into the kiss. For a minute, he was able to keep it sweet, comforting. Then, just as it had in the hospital, a wave of yearning engulfed them both, and they were floundering, drowning in heat and longing.

Lindsay pulled away with a squeak of surprise, and sat up, running her hand through her hair unsteadily. "I better … um … I have to … I'll just get you some coffee, okay?"

Danny didn't even try to stop her, just turned over and curled both hands into the pillow he placed over his face to scream quietly into.

Damn it, if he didn't touch her soon, have her soon, he was going to die.

* * *

_A/N2 In music, the **burden** is the drone or bass in some musical instruments (wikipedia)_


	19. Chapter 19: Facing Forward

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY. Poetry not otherwise referenced is original._

_A/N: When several people commented on the last line of the previous chapter, I read it over and realized I had ripped off a line from one of my favourite ff writers, so I apologize and thank theheathen42 for writing a sentence so perfect it has a life of its own! Those comments rightly belong to her.  
_

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

* * *

_**Dress Blues and 3 Volley Salutes**_

_Cold winter wind cuts through blue serge_

_Like a sword through flesh._

_Grey skies weep in angry sorrow_

_While men and women parade through the town, _

_Following the hearse_

_Following the dead._

_Uniforms blue as the mountains he loved, _

_Red as the blood he lost,_

_Green as the cool forests he protected._

_Brothers and sisters in arms,_

_In dedication to an ideal_

_That the weak deserve protection, _

_Even when they turn like animals at bay._

_Strong shoulders deliver _

_The burden of grief to the graveside._

_As the words are spoken, as the coffin is lowered,_

_Guns are raised in crisp unison_

_And the sky is shattered._

_The heart is shattered._

_SMT2007_

* * *

**Chapter 19: Facing Forward**

The church was full, and over-full, with camera crews and reporters camped outside. The service was solemn and too short to celebrate a life. Mr. McKim sat alone in the front pew, until Lindsay moved away from her family and stood beside him as the first prayers were said. He grasped her hand as if it were the only thing anchoring him.

The coffin was carried out of the church on the shoulders of fellow officers into the hearse. A solemn procession started down the main street: police officers in dress blues from all over the country; Royal Canadian Mounted Police from Alberta and British Columbia in red serge; Forest Rangers from the state parks in green. Stores were closed; the street was lined with the town's people: men with their hats over their hearts; women standing tall with tears streaming down their faces; children held silent by the incomprehensible weight of adult emotion.

At the graveside, impossibly green artificial turf covered the hole in the ground. The coffin was carried to the grave, flowers placed on and around the coffin in a grotesque parody of a garden. Lindsay silently took a place beside Mr. McKim again while the pastor spoke, while the flag draping the coffin was removed, ceremoniously folded, and presented to the father of the fallen hero. She felt her throat tighten unbearably when he clutched it to him like a swaddled babe.

Five armed policemen stood at attention. On the command of the sergeant, they shouldered their shotguns and fired three volleys in unison across the coffin, acknowledging the sacrifice of their fellow officer.

It was a pageant, a spectacle, meant to honour the dead and awe the living, meant, she thought bitterly, to convince people that the loved one had not died in vain, that some good had come from that sacrifice.

Lindsay remained at the graveside, looking small and tidy in her dress uniform, shivering slightly in the bitter wind coming down from the mountains. She couldn't make her feet move. She knew that Danny was waiting for her, leaning patiently on her father's truck. He had stood beside her at attention, saying not a word as she moved from his side to support Mr. McKim. He had neither touched her, nor reached for her hand, respecting her withdrawal. She didn't have to look at him to know his eyes would be hooded, lips tight with pain. She didn't have to ask him to know that, unless forced, he would not leave until she did.

And yet she could not make her feet move. She kept going over it in her head, again and again. How could she have changed this? When could she have stopped this? At what point did she miss the important clue, the one that would have solved the case, made everything clear? Kept people she loved safe?

Finally, when the cold had seeped into her bones almost all the way to her heart, she felt a hand on her shoulder. She stiffened, ready to argue, ready to pull away, but it was Ted standing beside her, arm wrapped around her; it was Ted who led her back to the truck. "You have a plane to catch, Peanut," he said quietly.

She turned and saw that virtually no one was left in the cemetery. As she walked away with her father, she heard the roar of the backhoe behind her, preparing to fill in the grave.

Danny was no longer standing by the truck, and she turned to Ted with a question in her eyes.

"I sent him with Mick, Lin. He was losing steam, and you still have a long flight home." If Ted's heart broke a little on that word, his voice remained strong and sure.

"Daddy, I'm sorry."

"What for, baby?" He buckled her into the front seat, as he had since she was a toddler following him around, rubber boots flopping, jeans covered in grease and mud.

"For everything. For leaving Bozeman in the first place. For coming back and bringing this all on top of us again. I'm sorry for not telling you and Mom about Danny. For going back to New York. I don't know. I'm sorry for everything." Her words had run like water filling a spring, but dried up as her father took her face in his broad, weathered hands.

"You don't have to apologize for anything. Do you know how proud we are of everything you've accomplished? How proud we are that you are doing so well in the city? You've made a life for yourself, Lindsay. You're doing what you are good at. Do you think we wanted you to stay here, to never experience anything bigger than the life we gave you?" He gave her a tiny shake, his eyes smiling. "What parent would begrudge his child a better life than he had?"

She hugged him hard, whispering against his cheek, "Thank you, Daddy."

He said nothing on the drive back to the ranch until they were very close. Then he cleared his throat and said, "This Messer."

Lindsay hid her smile, looking down at her intertwined fingers. "Hmm?"

"Your brothers seem to think he's okay."

"Uh-huh?"

"Your mother likes him."

"No. My mother _loves _him."

Ted shrugged, "He lets her feed him."

They shared a grin.

"You good with him?"

Lindsay couldn't help the flush of heat that rose at the comment. She was nearly sure Ted had not been asking about the sexual chemistry between Daniel Messer and her, chemistry she was desperately trying to keep under control for fear of just dissolving altogether. "Very good, I think."

"You love him?"

She looked out the window and nodded her head. Ted could just see the movement in the side mirror.

"He love you?"

"_Ti amo. _That's what he said. It's Italian. It means _I love you_." She could feel the blush rising from her toes to her hairline.

Ted nodded once, seemingly satisfied.

Later, on the plane, Lindsay watched Danny dozing uneasily, twitching and muttering as he fought going deeper. She took his hand in both of hers, and whispered, "_Ti amo_, Danny. I'm here_. Calmo_."

He smiled a little, muttering, "Damn, Montana – your accent sucks!"

Then he went to sleep properly.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-

"_Hey – I'm not in. Either that or I'm screening my calls (just kidding Mom!). You know what to do!"_

_BEEP!_

"Reed? It's Detective Taylor again. Mac. It's Mac Taylor. I've been trying to get a hold of you since Monday. It's Wednesday afternoon. I need to talk to you about something, ask you some questions. Please, get in touch with me. Call my cell number, or call this one," Mac read out his office number. "Please call, Reed."

He hung up the phone and rested his head in his hands.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-

"Hi, Tony." Flack's voice was low, as was appropriate to the hush that filled the large stone church.

The young priest turned at the sound, and his solemn face split into a wide grin. "Flack! Good to see you! What on earth brings you here?" One glance into the flat eyes had Father Tony taking a step back. "What's wrong? Is it your dad?"

Flack shook his head. "I need to talk to you, Tone. Is there some place private we can go?"

"This police business?"

Flack nodded once.

"Let's go into my office then."

"Did you know this girl, Father Reagan?" Flack handed him a picture.

Tony looked up in some surprise at the more formal address, at the notebook that had appeared like magic in Flack's right hand. Then he looked at the picture and his face went white. He groped behind him for his chair and sat in it heavily.

"That's Caitlin. Caitlin O'Leary. What happened? Is she … is she …?" He didn't finish the sentence; it was obvious that the young girl in the picture was dead.

"How did you know her, Father?" Flack's voice remained cool and inquisitorial, left hand scrawling notes quickly.

"She is a church member, one of the leaders of the young group, a Sunday School teacher in the crèche. I've known her forever, Don. You know her – her parents are Thomas and Catherine O'Leary." Tony looked up into his friend's face and saw no recognition there; he was all cop now.

"Allegations have been made that you knew her a little better than as a parishioner, Father."

"Allegations? Allegations by whom? What the hell are you talking about, Don?"

"Would you be willing to come to the police station and give a DNA sample, Father?"

Tony leaped to his feet, "Okay, now you are really going over the line, Flack. Tell me what is going on! What happened to Caitlin?"

"She was murdered, strangled, in Central Park," Flack's voice was as cool as his expression, his eyes focused on every emotion running over Tony's face.

Tony sat down hard in his chair again, the breath knocked out of him. He closed his eyes, and began to murmur under his breath. Flack allowed him a few minutes for the consolation of prayer. This is why he had insisted on being the one to question Tony.

"Father. I'll ask again, are you willing to come to the station and give a DNA sample?"

And that was why he had refused even Stella's gentle offer to come with him.

Tony sat back in his chair, eyes still closed, his face calm, but voice shaking a little. "Am I a suspect in this child's death, Detective Flack?"

"No."

Tony's eyes flew open at that, "Then why do you want my sample? Wait a minute, why am I not a suspect? For Christ's sake, Don, tell me what is going on!"

"She was strangled by Jason Johnson. He's confessed. He followed her to the Sister's Health Centre over on 57th."

"Oh dear God. Jason? He loved her. He was going to marry her – they were just waiting until he finished college. What happened? Wait … wait a minute."

Flack waited a minute for the lights to come on, which they did, quickly.

"Sister's Health Centre? Why would she go there? It's way out of her neighbourhood, Don. It's a free clinic, isn't it? But she had coverage; her father has worked for the city for years."

"She was pregnant," Flack said it bluntly.

Tony whispered, "Oh, sweet Mary. That poor child. She must have felt desperate. Why didn't she come to me, or to her parents? We could have helped them. And why would Jason kill her? He'd hardly be the first boy to make that mistake …"

Flack cocked an eyebrow as Tony's frantically whirring mind finally came to a stop. "My DNA? You don't think … Don! You can't think …" He put his hands over his mouth as if keeping himself from being sick.

"She told the doctor at the clinic it was a priest at her church. Jason and she went to this church. When he confessed, he made this statement," Flack read coldly out of his notebook, " 'She said it was Father, but she must have been lying. He would never do that. And if he did, she must have led him on. He would never do that. She must have been lying.' "

Tony grabbed on to the only part of the statement that made any sense to him. "He said 'Father'. Did he identify me by name?"

Flack shook his head, "He refused to give a name. So did Caitlin when she was talking to the doctor."

"Did she … did she have the abortion?"

Flack shook his head again.

"So you want to test my DNA against the baby's?"

Flack nodded, eyes hooded.

"You do know there are five priests attached to this church, don't you? Why me? Why do you think I'm the guilty one? After all this time, Don, you can think this of me?"

This time, Flack's eyes squeezed shut in pain, "It's because I don't think this of you that I am asking you to come down and volunteer a sample. I need to know that you are in the clear, here, Tony. 'Cause someone had sex with this girl, and at the moment everything we have points at a priest here in St Augustine's. And because that man, who ever he was, had sex with her, she's dead and a twenty-year-old boy is going away for life. I need someone to pay for that, Tony."

Tony looked at his childhood friend, slumped in the chair, his exhaustion showing through. He stood up and grabbed his coat from the rack behind him. "Let's go."


	20. Chapter 20: Translating Interpreting

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY. Poetry not otherwise referenced is original._

_A/N: Thanks to those who are sticking with the story, and those letting me know what they think. Finally, the team is all back together, but the problems are multiplying! _

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

* * *

_**Interpretation**_

_The first word a culture comes up with means "Human"_

"_Us"_

_Everything else is "other"_

_Thus language, which defines us as human,_

_Becomes the first wall we place between us._

_When you speak, I hear confusion._

_When I speak, you look at me, perplexed._

_Language, which ought to unify us as rational beings,_

_Serves only to mystify us as members of a society._

_When people spoke as one, the story goes, _

_They sought to reach the gods in a tower of stone_

_And were struck down, to run babbling away._

_When we can once more speak _

_Heart to Heart_

_With no words to stand in the way of intention_

_To what heights may we reach?_

_SMT2007_

* * *

**Chapter 20: Translating Means Interpreting**

Mac looked at the text message from Stella in confusion. He kept up with most things, but honestly, was it that hard to text a comprehensible message?

"Or even pick up a pen and piece of paper?" he muttered to himself, striding through the corridors.

"Mac? What's the matter?" Adam looked up nervously as Mac stormed into the lab and thrust a phone at him.

"Can you read that?"

Adam looked at the text on the screen, frowned, then looked up at Mac, "Umm. Yes?"

Mac got a grip on his temper, reminding himself that Adam needed a gentler touch than other people, and that shoving his head through a wall would probably only slow things down more. He took a deep breath and stepped away from Adam carefully.

"Adam, can you translate this for me, please?"

"Um. Natalie Chance needs to see you – she's worried about Reed. Call, and then the phone number?" Adam couldn't help but wonder how hard that was to read - it made perfect sense to him.

"Thank for your help, Adam," Mac said over his shoulder, already dialing the number. He couldn't help but wonder how hard it would have been to just write out the words – it would have only taken a few more letters. And why use a 'z' when the 's' was easier, and had the added advantage of being right?

"Natalie? Detective Taylor, Mac Taylor here. You came to the station yesterday looking for me? Is everything all right?"

Adam watched Mac out the door, waiting until he was sure the boss was gone before he enlarged the window he had frantically minimized when he had seen Mac striding through the corridors. He took a deep breath, trying to will his heartbeat to slow down, then continued with his message.

To: Aisha Blanco

From: Adam Ross

Subject: Re: WTH Game?

Yeah, game. I said you're playing a game, and you keep changing the rules.

It's like watching Australian Rules football. I know football. I know rugby. I know soccer. So why can't I figure out Aussie Rules football? Surely it has to follow at least some of the same basic formats? But it doesn't. Maybe you have to be born knowing it. Maybe someone's supposed to teach you before you learn to speak. Whatever. I just know that I don't get it.

And I don't get what you are doing, A. I mean – we get along, don't we? I like you. You like me. I send you my picture. You send me a calendar pinup done by some guy you say isn't interested in your body. Seems to me he sorta forgot to put something in the picture. What was it now? Oh, yeah, I remember – it was your face!

We plan to meet. You don't show. I hook up with some people (yeah, okay some girls) – you freak and accuse me of being a player.

I can assure you, I am many things, including a certified freaking genius, but a player I am not.

One more try. Saturday night. Coffee at Starbucks on the edge of Central Park. 7:00. You'll know me by my picture. I don't know whether to hope I recognize you from yours or not.

Adam

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-

"Danny, Lindsay! Over here!" Stella waved at the two people entering the baggage claim area, smiling when she saw their hands intertwined. The smile faltered into a frown when they got closer and she could see the exhaustion on Lindsay's pale face, the grey tinge to Danny's. She turned to Flack, opening her mouth to ask him if he saw, then closed it as she noticed his grim face.

"You okay?" Something had been bothering him all afternoon.

"Tell you later." He said under his breath.

Stella nodded; then, carefully, she put on a cheerful smile as the couple came closer.

Lindsay reached her first, and Stella hugged her gently while Danny and Don bumped shoulders and went to the baggage pick-up to grab Lindsay's luggage. Lindsay followed Danny's progress with controlled panic in her eyes, and Stella gave her an understanding squeeze.

"He'll be okay now, Lindsay. All that fresh air just tuckered him out. He needs to get the smell of the city back into his lungs."

With a bit of an effort, Lindsay smiled, "And pizza. And real hamburgers. Buffalo just didn't have the same effect."

"Hey," Danny objected, coming up behind her, "I tried the buffalo."

"And made gagging faces behind my mother's back!" Lindsay shot back with a grin.

"It was okay once I got used to it," Danny said, shaking his head and rolling his eyes at Flack.

"This from the guy who ate mealworms," Flack wrapped a gentle arm around Lindsay, "Welcome back, Linds."

"Thanks for coming to get us, guys. We could have managed a taxi," Lindsay said, looking around to check that she had everything.

"Ah well, all part of the service," Flack looked at Stella over the younger woman's head. "You guys stay here, and I'll bring the car around."

"Let's get this stuff out to the front. Lindsay, is this all you had? Danny, what about you?' She took the gym bag Danny hoisted out of his hands and firmly handed it and Lindsay's suitcase to Flack.

"You don't have to …" Danny started, but Flack was already on his way, long legs moving fast.

"Come on," Stella grabbed the last bag before Danny could move towards it, and followed Flack at a much slower pace.

"Things go okay today?" Stella said quietly to Lindsay, who had taken Danny's arm in a not too subtle attempt to give him some support.

She nodded, "The wreath was beautiful, Stella. Thank you for thinking of it, and for sending our uniforms. Mr. McKim was at a loss, I think. I wish I could have stayed to help him with the rest of the arrangements, but …" her voice trailed off and she bit her lip as she looked sideways at Danny.

His voice was a little rough as he said, "His sister was there, Linds. He'll be okay."

She sighed and nodded, but said nothing else.

"So let me catch you up on all the gossip," Stella said lightly, and began entertaining them with snippets of stories from the lab, keeping them laughing until they got to the doors, where Don was waiting with the lights flashing.

He shrugged when Stella shot him a disapproving look, "What? They tried to move me on!"

Stella helped Lindsay into the back seat, insisting that Danny take the front seat. When she got in his face to insist, he took the wind out of her sails by whispering, "Looks like you left out a little bit of prime info, Bonasera," and looking significantly Flack's way. While she sputtered and blushed, he snuck past her guard and climbed into the back seat with Lindsay.

She shrugged and slid into the front seat, glancing at Flack as she did. They weren't really that obvious, were they?

Flack killed the lights when Stella cleared her throat meaningfully, and drove competently through the crowded streets towards Manhattan and Lindsay's apartment. The burst of energy that had propelled Danny through the airport and into the car had left him, Flack saw; he was dozing in the back seat, hand tucked into Lindsay's.

"Good," thought Flack, "That should make this easier."

He pulled into a parking place near Lindsay's apartment and Stella jumped out. "This is our stop, Linds." She went around to the trunk and grabbed the bags Flack had put in, then stood on the sidewalk waiting.

Lindsay looked at Danny, whose eyes were fluttering open as he realized the car had stopped, He groaned a little, trying to wake up fully, and she pressed her lips to his quickly, whispering, "I'll call you tomorrow" as she slid out of the car. She turned to watch the car drive off; Flack had given her little time to discuss this enforced separation.

She grabbed one of the bags from Stella and walked into her building, struggling to find her keys at the bottom of her purse. She sighed with relief that there was no sign on the elevator; at least she wouldn't have to walk up to her apartment.

Stella paced her, not saying anything. It had been a little manipulative, she had to admit, not allowing Lindsay or Danny any say in which apartment they ended up in, not giving them enough warning to say good bye properly. She and Flack had had quite an argument about it on their way out to the airport to wait for the flight from Montana. She had won by drawing on her own experience. "If she is going to break down, it'll be better if she's in her own space and not with him. And can you honestly tell me it's any different for him?"

Flack had stared straight ahead at the New York skyline, then given a terse nod, "We'll do it your way then. I just hope he's too weak to take me out the way I deserve."

When they got to the door of Lindsay's apartment, she opened it as she had hundreds of times before, and stopped dead in her hallway, dropping the bags she had in her hands and covering her face with her hands.

"Lindsay? Lindsay! What is it? Are you okay?" Stella's voice was sharp, a little frightened. Lindsay had gone perfectly white, losing even the vestige of colour she had had coming off the plane.

_The front hall … Danny's hands … his mouth hungry, relentless. The slam of the door … the wall at her back … shock turns to struggle. One hand trapped behind her, the other above her head. Bruising kisses … bruising hands._

_Anger tastes like stale smoke… desperation. Submission tastes like honeyed wine: burning through her veins. _

_Taking becomes offering. No thought, no breath, only heat. The struggle to be closer, to feel more … the screaming urge to possess and be possessed._

_The need to love and be loved. __"Ti amo, mi innamorata. Siete la mia vita, il mio amore, la mia ogni cosa." _

Lindsay gasped, swamped by the emotions from the last time she had been in this hallway. She could feel the wall behind her, could feel the heat pool in the pit of her stomach, could taste him on her, feel his anger and love surround her. She lowered her hands and rubbed her wrists reflexively, feeling again the bruises that had branded her his forever, she now realized.

With a little moan, she turned into Stella's waiting arms and burst into tears.

"Shh, shh, it's all right. Let it out, Lindsay, let it all go. It's okay now, kiddo, it's all over now."

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-

Hawkes walked up to the door of the clinic, glancing over his shoulder at the group of men who seemed to be there no matter what time of day he came by. The receptionist at the desk greeted him with a friendly smile, "Dr. Hawkes, isn't it? How are you today, sir? Can I help you?"

"That's pretty impressive, remembering me after only one meeting," Hawkes smiled at her.

"That's our Rica," Dr. Suq said from behind him, "She never forgets a face or a name, do you, Rica? She has been here at this clinic since it opened five years ago, but I'm sure she knows everyone in the neighbourhood."

The older woman laughed, "From elders to grandkids," she agreed cheerfully. "Been round here longer than most the buildings, and am older than everything but the dirt. Shoulda left here long ago, retired in the sun somewhere. Florida, maybe, or Nevada. Go see what Puerto Rico smells like."

Dr. Suq smiled with her, "Oh, go on, then. Retire and see where that gets you. You'd go crazy without all of us to look after and tell what to do. You know you would."

She turned to Hawkes, holding out her hand. "Dr Hawkes, it is nice to see you again. Did you come to see Miriam? She is not here, I am afraid; she left to go to a budget meeting with some of our funders."

Hawkes took her hand, surprised at how small it felt in his. "Actually, Dr. Suq, I came to see you. I have some news I thought you should hear."

Instantly sobered, Dr. Suq showed him down the hall to her office, and asked him to sit. She remained standing, looking out the window, hands clasped tightly in front of her.

"It's about Caitlin O'Leary, the girl we asked you about. She was, as you know, strangled. Her boyfriend, the one she told you about, has admitted to the murder."

Dr. Suq closed her eyes, her lips moving slightly. Hawkes sat silently, waiting for her to be ready, a still, calming presence. Finally, she opened her eyes and returned to her desk, where she steepled her fingers together and stared over her hands at Hawkes.

"You are sure that it was the boyfriend?" she asked.

Hawkes nodded, "We had the evidence. He confessed. And he had this in his pocket." He took out an evidence bag and passed it over to the doctor. "Do you recognize it? Her grandmother gave it to her at her confirmation."

A spasm of pain crossed her face as she looked carefully at the gold crucifix on the gold chain, but she said decisively, "I can say that she had a necklace very like this one which she was wearing when she came to see me. Naturally, I cannot positively identify this as that necklace." She ran a finger over the filigree design that surrounded the Christ figure, just as she had over the girl's face in the morgue picture and handed it back to Hawkes. "Did he say why? Was it because of the abortion?"

Hawkes shook his head in reflex at the pain in her eyes, then caught himself and shrugged. "He hasn't been too coherent. He seems to blame her the most for seducing a priest." He watched her carefully as he said it, and did not miss the signs of deep anger: the pinched lips, narrowed eyes, and clenched hands.

When she spoke, however, it was in her customary calm, quiet voice, "No matter how far we may feel women have come, Dr. Hawkes, it is clear that there is still much work to be done before the absurdity of that statement becomes unthinkable."

Hawkes inclined his head, "I agree, Dr. Suq. Isn't it just as important, though, to remember where we came from? After all, who would have thought, even in this country, even as little as one generation ago, that today a black man and a Muslim woman would share the profession we do?"

He smiled at her, the same smile that had convinced numerous women of all ages that he could be a friend for life, and was surprised and a little disconcerted to see her drop her eyes while a gentle flush of red swept over her dusky skin.

"Um, Dr. Suq? Would you like to go have coffee with me?" It was out of his mouth before he had even thought his way through the first problem, and as the flush on her cheeks deepened, he stammered, "I'm sorry. That was foolish – perhaps you are not permitted to drink coffee?"

Dr. Suq looked up at that, her eyes flashing with laughter as she answered, "Ah, Dr. Hawkes, we Muslims _invented _coffee. Come. I will teach you to drink coffee Persian style."


	21. Chapter 21: Looking Up

Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY. Poetry not otherwise referenced is original. 

A/N: Thanks as always to the ones who review and the ones who read. I appreciate the interest, questions, and support.

Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night".

* * *

**_Snips and Snails and Puppy Dog Tails_**

_  
Lives intersect, for good or bad._

_Some glance off us like light off a mirror;_

_Some stick to us like gum on our shoe._

_Some attach to us like ticks to scalp._

_Some stay in our lives and hearts forever_

_Growing into and under our skin_

_Others strike us like a blow, turning us around_

_To face again a direction we thought we had abandoned. _

_We may touch each other lightly,_

_Hardly aware of the other's existence,_

_Or we may breathe in concert_

_Unable to imagine a life in which the other is not._

_Woven into our lives are little pieces of_

_ All those we have met along the way,_

_And we would not be who we are_

_If they had not run into us, and left a trace._

_SMT2007_

_  
_**Chapter 21: Looking Up**

Flack checked on Danny in the rear-view mirror a few times as he made his way to the apartment Danny had moved into a few years ago, when he was still on the promotion grid and his future was looking pretty bright. It was in a good neighbourhood, but better yet, it was in a rent-controlled building, which meant Danny could afford it. Furnishings were a little harder to come by, but as the guys agreed, a big-screen TV, a comfortable couch, and a refrigerator with beer were enough for most purposes. If those palled, there was always the pool table in the middle of what would normally be the dining room. 

He parked in the street and thanked the parking gods, who had smiled on him all night. Opening the back door, he shook Danny's shoulder gently. "Come on, buddy, I'm not sure how to carry you out of here."

Hazily, Danny opened one eye, then dropped his head back on the headrest and groaned a little theatrically. "The last person who woke me up was a lot prettier," he grumbled.

"What? You don't think I'm pretty? I'm crushed, Messer, crushed. Anyway, Romeo, she had to climb back up her balcony, so you're stuck with me. Come on; let's go."

He grabbed Danny's bag from the trunk and turned to see Danny turning out his pockets, obviously looking for something.

"Keys?" Flack guessed, frowning.

"Yeah. I know I had them. Where the hell did they go?' He took the bag Flack offered him and dug around in it for a minute, finally pulling the keys out of a side pocket in triumph. "Right where I put them!"

"Get outta here," Flack muttered, following Danny through the front door and into the stairwell. Danny was not as lucky as Lindsay; his apartment had no elevator at all, working or not, and he contemplated the several flights of stairs with a hint of dismay on his face. Then he looked at Danny, who had no expression at all on his face.

"One at a time, eh?"

Danny just nodded and started moving slowly.

Flack had run up stairs in heart pounding chases; he had run down stairs in headlong scrambles. He had climbed his own stairs carelessly; he had scaled them exultantly. He had even fallen down stairs once or twice. But he had never watched someone attack stairs with the determination he saw on Danny's face. And he could only stand back and watch as Danny got to each short landing, took a breath, and started all over again.

By the time they reached the floor Danny's apartment was on, Danny was grey and sweating, while Flack was white and anxious. Danny handed over his keys; his hands were shaking too much to even find the lock, and Flack helped him through the door and into the living room. Carefully, he maneuvered him onto the couch, then went to grab some water.

"Got anything for the pain?" He said it casually, then stiffened in self-disgust. He knew better; he really did.

Danny shrugged, saying, "Toss me my bag."

Flack walked it over, not trusting either Danny's or his own arm tonight. He handed over the bottle of water that was about all Danny's fridge had, and watched with some surprise as Danny pulled out a bottle of acetaminophen and swallowed a couple with a quick water chaser.

"The doc said not to be stupid," Danny muttered, looking a bit ashamed.

"Hey, Dan, he was right. There's nothing holy about suffering."

Danny quirked an amused eyebrow, "Says the choirboy." The tearing claws of pain were beginning to leave his gut, and he carefully relaxed one muscle at a time.

"Yeah, well, if you're a blessed martyr it's news to me!" Flack shot back, grinning with relief.

Danny snorted and closed his eyes. "There a game on?"

"Is it summer yet? If not, when isn't there a game on?" Flack grabbed the remote and turned on the TV, flipping until he found that night's game, sitting in the one comfortable chair in the room.

Danny swung his legs around until he was lying on the couch, his eyes still closed. When he heard the announcer begin his colour commentary, though, his eyes flew open. "What the fuck did he say?" He glared at Flack accusingly.

"Buffalo against Ottawa – semi-final game. Ya' want pizza or Chinese?" Flack said tersely, eyes on the puck, hand reaching for the phone.

"Buffalo? What happened to my Rangers?" Danny's voice rose an octave.

"Got beat. By Buffalo. Last week."

"Where the fuck was I?" Danny asked in confusion.

"Uh, Danno? You were in hospital? You got shot, right?" Flack was beginning to feel a little alarmed.

"Holy crap. I leave New York for five minutes and it all goes to shit," Danny muttered.

Flack started to laugh. After a minute, Danny joined in, and soon neither could catch a full breath, setting each other off again every time they caught the other's eye.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-

"Okay, okay, Natalie. Just slow down. When is the last time you saw him? Have you reported it? I don't know – the university? The police?" Mac closed his eyes, nearly running into a young lab tech who squeaked and scuttled away. He walked down the corridor towards his office, and saw through the windows that there were two people in there, clearly waiting for him. He frowned, causing another lab tech to detour around him nervously as well.

"Natalie? Go to the university – report to them. Campus Security or the dorm supervisor, probably both. Do exactly what they tell you. I will call you as soon as I can. And Natalie?" He waited until he was reasonably sure the panicky young girl was listening to him, "You did the right thing. I'll take care of it."

He stepped into his office as he clipped the phone shut, examining the visitors. It was unusual to say the least to have people left in his office without supervision; he would have to speak to Tonia on the desk about how exactly that had been allowed. He could only assume that the woman currently pacing his floor had over-ridden any protocol concerns.

She turned as he came in and said, "Detective Taylor. About time. I want to know what the hell you think you are doing? Exactly what business do you think you have getting involved with him? If anything has happened, I swear I will hunt you down…"

She stopped when the man standing by the window said quietly, "Miranda."

Mac walked around her and took his seat behind his desk. "Please," he motioned, "Sit down."

The man did, stretching a hand out to the woman, who pulled away petulantly, then seemed to reconsider and sat beside him.

"Let's start again. I'm Mac Taylor. And you are…?" he lifted an eyebrow inquiringly, even though he was quite aware of who they were.

"I'm Peter Garrett and this is my wife, Miranda," the man started.

"And we are Reed's parents…" the woman burst out again, biting her lip when her husband put a calming hand on her arm again.

"Mr. Garrett. Mrs. Garrett. I would have liked to meet you under different circumstances…" Mac said, only to be interrupted again as Miranda Garrett leapt to her feet.

"We shouldn't be meeting at all. Reed has done just fine without you in his life, Mr. Taylor. We were willing for Reed to look for his biological mother; I took him to register when he turned 18. But she's dead." She flushed a little as Mac's face stiffened and her husband grimaced, but continued, softening her stance only a little, "I'm sorry, Detective. I know how hard that must have been. But the fact is that that part of his life is closed now. And I do not want my son in danger because he has some kind of childish idea of finding his 'real' family."

Mac looked at the distraught woman in some shock. Her outward appearance did not in any way reflect the obvious emotional stress she was under. A tall woman with a commanding presence, she was carefully groomed: dark hair perfectly cut, a shining cap around a pale, carefully made-up face. The dark red of her jacket added a punch of colour to the slim black skirt and trim blouse. There was a hint of feminine frivolity in the stylish shoes she was wearing; if she would stand still for more than a moment, Mac could see which fashion house she had bought them from. Stella would be able to tell from space, he knew, but his eye was not quite as discerning as hers.

Miranda Garrett looked confident, powerful, and a force to be reckoned with until one looked into her deep blue eyes, which were blank with fear.

Mac looked over at Peter Garrett; where his wife was all sharp angles and bright colours – a Picasso or a Mondrian – Peter was more of a watercolour by Monet. His light brown hair, a little long, stood out in an unruly halo around his head. His soft gray eyes were a little vague, his cherubic face a little too round. He stooped a little more than a man his age ought, and his hands were short and a little pudgy. He looked as if the quiet of the library he worked in had sunk deep into his bones.

"Mr. Garrett? Where is Reed?" Mac spoke with quiet authority.

Peter Garrett spoke to his wife, "You see, Miranda, I told you he wasn't with Detective Taylor. She is worried, you know," Garrett turned to Mac confidingly, "Worried that Reed would become fascinated with your line of work. He was always a curious child …"

Miranda Garrett sat down suddenly in a chair beside the desk, face draining. "You don't know where he is? Oh God. Oh God. We haven't heard from him since Sunday."

Mac shook his head as he dialed the Missing Persons desk, "I saw him on Friday night; he stayed with me. I dropped him off at the university Saturday morning. I just talked to Natalie Chance?" A quick shake of the head from Peter Garrett indicated Reed's parents had not spoken to her yet. "She says no one has seen him since Monday night at dinner. Have you tried calling him? He's not picking up his cell."

Peter took Miranda's hand, unselfconsciously patting it, offering her comfort as his brow furrowed and he tried to put his thoughts together logically.

Mac held up his hand, "This is Detective Taylor of the Crime Lab. Have you got a report on a Reed Garrett? It would have been called in just a few minutes ago." He waited impatiently while the file was called up and read out, turning around in his chair so that the Garretts would not hear what he said. "Yes. Add that he is my stepson and has been seen with me. He was investigating possible Mob activity for a school newspaper. No, Jefferson, I do not think this is just a college kid sleeping off a bad weekend. He's been missing for nearly 48 hours."

He listened coldly to the words spilling out of the phone. "You'll get this to everyone ASAP, Detective – you got that? I'm sending you pictures now." Mac was attaching the picture of Reed and him taken by Natalie a few months before at Christmas to a departmental email as he spoke. After listening to the detective for another minute, he hung up and turned back to the parents.

"Mrs. Garrett, you haven't talked to Natalie? Why not?" He gentled his voice; the woman with the commanding presence had deflated, sitting in his office listening to him.

She looked at him blankly, "We argued, Reed and I, about Nat. I thought he was too young to be getting so serious."

"On Sunday night?" Mac was scribbling notes as she spoke, and she nodded wearily.

"About 9:00 in the evening, perhaps. When he didn't call me Monday, I thought he was still sulking. Then it was Wednesday … he's never been out of touch for so long…"

"He may live in the dorms, Detective, but he calls or drops in nearly every day, " his father interjected.

"We went to his dorm room today," Miranda continued, "We have a key for emergencies. I listened to his messages. There were two from you, and I was …" she hesitated obviously over what to say next, "Concerned," she admitted with a sigh.

Mac nodded, "You knew we had met?"

Miranda nodded, still averting her eyes. "You were all he talked about for a while around the time Brian Miller was killed. He was all excited about the article he was writing then, too. Then the next enthusiasm came along – the next big story. Reed is always looking ahead, Detective Taylor."

"Mac. Please. Call me Mac." He waited until she looked at him.

"Mac," she said softly, "Find him? Find my son, please?"


	22. Chapter 22: Getting To Know You

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY. Poetry not otherwise referenced is original._

_A/N: Thanks to those reading and reviewing. I love to hear what people think of the story._

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

* * *

**_Black as Sin_**

_Talleyrand said coffee should be _

"_Black as the devil, Hot as hell,_

_Pure as an angel, Sweet as love."_

_He stole that from the Turks, _

_But he was French, so he should know_

_That love is a demonic hag-ridden nightmare_

_When it isn't a spiritual embodiment of light_

_That love is__ an agony of burning_

_When it isn't a suffusion of joy. _

_The sweet nectar, aromatic froth,_

_The liquid filling the mouth _

_The bitter dregs glazing the cup_

_SMT2007_

* * *

**Chapter 22: Getting To Know You**

Hawkes took a sip of the thick sweet drink and nearly gagged. Even the exotic taste of rose water couldn't disguise the bitter sweetness of the coffee. The old woman in the café, veiled and swaddled in black, had boiled powdered coffee grounds three times, adding more sugar than he used in a month. He looked into Dr. Suq's eyes and knew she was laughing at him.

"Do not worry, Dr. Hawkes. Persian coffee is not to everyone's taste. Fatima can make you American coffee, if you would prefer."

Deliberately, Hawkes watched a few people in the crowded dark café drink, before he examined the tiny cup, then brought it to his lips and took a careful sip, letting the thick liquid slide into his mouth, leaving the grounds in the bottom of the cup. He grinned slightly, "Tastes can be refined. And please, call me Sheldon."

"Nasreen." She sipped again, and folded her hands.

"Nasreen, then. When we found Caitlin, her face was covered with bee pollen. Do you know anything about that?" Hawkes knew Flack's preference for keeping information back, but the case had been officially closed with Jason's confession. This one point would bother Hawkes until he could close the file in his own mind. Not knowing was not an option.

Nasreen smiled, a little sadly, "Mother Tina," she said without hesitation. "That would have been Mother Tina. Why didn't she come and tell us she had found her? She'll have been worrying all this time."

Hawkes sipped the brew again, and quirked an inquisitive eyebrow, "Mother Tina? Does she have a last name?"

"I'm sure she does, although I only know her as Mother Tina. She lives on the streets, although I think she has a home to go to. She seems to keep clean enough, and to eat, although she'll tell you she eats only what the bees provide."

"Bees?" Hawkes didn't need his notebook for this; his memory was more than equal to the task. In fact, he suspected that the smell of coffee would forever now be linked with the sound of that soft accent and the image of bees.

Nasreen shrugged, "Mother believes in the healing power of bees. She comes to the clinic and gives our patients pollen and Royal Jelly, which is fed to the larvae to make them queens. She does no one harm, and it makes her happy. She talks to bees."

Hawkes smiled, "She talks to bees?"

Nasreen nodded solemnly, though her eyes danced, "She tells them what is happening in the neighbourhood, who to be careful around, who to be good to. She says the bees must be spoken to politely, or they will swarm and leave, and then all the luck of the neighbourhood will go with them." She paused, the picture of Caitlin O'Leary rising in her mind, and sighed. "Perhaps she forgot to talk to them last week."

Hawkes put his hand over Nasreen's, squeezing it comfortingly. "You couldn't have changed anything, Nasreen. This is on Jason, and whichever man got her pregnant in the first place. You helped her."

Gently, Nasreen removed her hand, picking up her cup and finishing the last of her coffee. "I should get back and close up the clinic for the night."

"I'll walk you back," Hawkes swallowed the last of his coffee as well, careful to leave the dregs in the bottom of the cup, and noting with surprise that he had in fact got used somewhat to the taste. As he got up to go, the woman who had made the coffee came over and put her hand over his.

Nasreen spoke to her a moment in a rippling language, obviously mildly embarrassed. The old woman shook her head and answered briefly, but without heat.

Hawkes looked at the younger woman, "What does she want?"

Nasreen shrugged, still a little flushed, "She wants to read your coffee cup."

Hawkes looked at her solemnly for a moment, then turned to the old woman, and smiling, sat back down. He gestured towards his cup. "Please. I would like that very much."

Fatima sat down, throwing a triumphant glance at Nasreen, and took Hawkes' cup in her hands, first placing the saucer over top. She carefully swirled it three times, clock-wise, Hawkes observed, then placed it on the table with the handle facing him. She looked at him, but said nothing.

"She is waiting for the grounds to settle," Nasreen said in a quiet voice. "She'll promise you love and wealth and many children, all boys. She always promises love and wealth and boys."

Hawkes looked at her, a laugh in his eyes, "Good things to wish for, although I am partial to girls myself."

Ignoring Nasreen, Fatima lifted the saucer off the cup and looked at it. She began to speak, and with a roll of her eyes, Nasreen translated. "She sees an egg, near the handle and in the middle. That means wealth. Quelle surprise. And a moon – a full moon, surely, Fatima? Yes, a full moon, which means love. Qu'est-ce que je t'ai dit? Love and wealth. No bells or angels, Fatima?"

The older woman looked grave for a minute, then spoke to Nasreen in a burst of melodic Farsi.

Nasreen laughed, "Do not be silly, Fatima."

Hawkes looked at her, then at the old woman who was pointing to something in the bottom of the cup. "What? What did she say? No hordes of little boys for me?"

"She says she sees a claw approaching. See, near the handle? That means danger coming. And at the bottom of the cup, see? A dog. That means friends needing help."

Fatima spoke again, offering the cup and a long handled spoon to Hawkes insistently.

Nasreen said in a resigned tone, "She wants you to crush out the symbol. That will keep it from coming true."

Hawkes took the spoon and did as he was told, while Fatima watched him, large dark eyes worried over the face veil she wore. When he handed her back the cup, the symbol well and truly crushed she sighed, the veil fluttering away from her mouth for a moment.

Nasreen stood, smoothing her skirt and adjusting her headscarf. "I really should be …"

Hawkes leapt up, "Yes, of course. I'll walk you back." He smiled at Fatima and said, "Thank you, both for the good fortune and the warning. I will listen." Then he waited while Nasreen took her leave of the café owner, and then said, "Thank you for your help, too. I feel better when all the questions are answered. This Mother Tina? Any idea where we could find her?"

"You won't frighten her?" Nasreen waited for Hawkes to answer.

"I just need to talk to her. I promise."

She sighed, "The officers on duty in the park all know her. They are usually kind to her; they only move her on if someone complains about her. New Yorkers are usually too busy with their own lives to worry about crazy people in the park."

"New Yorkers? Are you not from New York, then?" Hawkes thought that was a subtle way to keep the conversation going. But Nasreen's smile told him she was aware of the ploy.

"I moved here from Montreal in 1999 with my husband. He worked for the UN." She pronounced Montreal with no "t" sound, which normally Hawkes would have commented on, but he was a little startled by the mention of a husband, and glanced quickly at her hands. No rings at all.

"Have you been married long?"

"Widowed now." The tone was serene, but the pain was clear in the way she kept her face averted from him as they walked down the sidewalk together.

"I'm sorry. It must have been hard after moving here."

"It was. My family wished me to come home, but I could not. Amir's work was here in New York; we had made a home. Leaving it felt like abandoning him."

"Was he ill?"

She shook her head, and now the pain leached into the words, "He was killed on 9/11."

Hawkes slowed his steps a little more, "I am very sorry. Was he in the Towers?"

She shook her head again. "He was shot in the street that evening."

Hawkes stopped moving altogether. "Did they ever find the person responsible?"

"It was a bad time," she said, refusing to meet his eyes.

He nodded curtly. He knew what that meant.

Nasreen started walking again, hands clasped tightly at her waist. "I met Kathleen and Miriam a year or so later, and began working at the clinic a few times a week before joining the partnership. There is so much to do here. And in Montreal, well, there is such a thing as too much family."

The hint of mischief Hawkes had noticed before was back, although he could tell now the serenity that seemed to surround Nasreen was hard won.

With a smile, he told a short, amusing story about his mother's family that held them until they arrived back at the clinic. He held out his hand to say goodbye, but she did not release her hands' grip on each other, and merely nodded, smiling, as he said goodbye.

"May I call you? Perhaps with another try, Persian coffee may become more to my taste," he smiled.

She looked up at him, and he could see the "No" quivering on her lips. Then her eyes slid sideways and a hint of a frown crossed her face. "Yes," she said abruptly and a little louder than necessary. "I would like that. Thank you, and good night."

She turned and nearly ran into the building, leaving Hawkes standing on the sidewalk. He moved from the doors and down the street, heading for his local coffee shop to wash the bitter aftertaste of Fatima's coffee out of his mouth, and passed a group of men standing casually near the stairs to the clinic. As he moved past them, he heard several mutter under their breath.

His phone rang as he reached the end of the block, and he answered it without looking at the caller ID. "Lissa? Sure, I'd like that. Where should I meet you?"

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-

"Peyton? Could you come to Lindsay's?" Stella tried to keep the note of begging out of her voice, but she didn't know what to do. Mac had called her in a controlled free fall – something about Reed, but she barely caught it before he hung up – and Lindsay was still verging on hysterical, although she looked calm enough. The colour had not come back into her face, though, and there was no way Stella was leaving her alone.

Lindsay at least knew Peyton, Stella thought, as she reviewed the people they worked with on a regular basis; she hadn't worked with Angell or any of the other women in the lab at all. And much as Stella appreciated and admired men, it would not occur to her to ask even someone like Hawkes to babysit a distraught woman.

Besides, Hawkes wasn't answering his phone.

"Yeah, she's home, and I was going to stay, but I got called in. She really can't be on her own at the moment. I don't know the whole story, but she really needs to have someone here to make her eat and get some sleep." Stella said quietly into the phone. She nodded with relief when Peyton's cool voice said cheerfully, "I'm on my way – perhaps 10 minutes?"

"I owe you one."

Stella jumped when Lindsay said in a dull voice, "I don't need anyone here, Stel. You should go. I'm fine."

Stella sat down beside her and wrapped an arm around her, "No, you're not," she said with robust common sense. "You are exhausted and emotionally wiped out. You haven't eaten anything today and being alone in this apartment is not a good idea right now. Peyton will be here in a few minutes, and I'll be back as soon as I can."

Lindsay twitched petulantly, but then stilled in resignation, "I just want to sleep. And I want to talk to Danny. Why didn't you let him come with me? I just want to know he's okay." Her eyes filled with weak tears.

Stella flipped open her phone and hit speed dial, "Flack? Danny okay?" She listened for a minute, frustration growing in her eyes. "Don? What the hell are you two up to?" The frown left her face as she listened for another minute, to be replaced with resigned amusement. "Good night, Flack."

Lindsay was staring at her in mild shock, "Were they … _laughing_?"

"Hysterically. While watching Buffalo finally turn on Ottawa, eating pizza, and drinking beer. I'd say they are doing as well as can be expected!"

Lindsay opened her mouth to respond; then common sense kicked in. She had grown up with men, after all. She nodded slowly, leaping to her feet as the door buzzer went. "I'll let her in. Oh, God, Stella, I don't have any food!" she whispered frantically.

Stella laughed as the door flew open and Peyton walked in carrying three cloth bags and smiling, "Thank goodness I had just gone shopping! Lindsay, are you up to making dinner, or would you like to be Queen for a Day and be served dinner in bed?"

One look at the rebellious glare the younger woman was sending her way answered that question, and Peyton took the bags into the kitchen and automatically put the kettle on to boil.

"Lindsay," she called from the kitchen, "Where is your teapot?"

"Oh, God," Lindsay muttered, and ran in to search for an object she hadn't unpacked in nearly two years in the city.

"That'll keep her busy a minute or two," Peyton smiled mischievously as she came back into the living room. "Quick. What's up?"

Stella filled her in briefly as she put on her coat, ending up with, "Mac called. Something about Reed. I have to go help."

Peyton nodded seriously, "He's been missing since Monday night – that's over 48 hours. His parents showed up at Mac's office. They're frantic."

"I don't know what he's up to, but he's got everyone in a buzz – his girlfriend lied her way into the station yesterday to talk to Mac too." Stella sighed in irritation. "This better be serious; if he's got everybody in a twist for nothing, I'll take him apart."

She kept her knowledge that Reed had been poking into Mafia connections quiet, not knowing how much Mac had told Peyton.

She shouted a goodbye to Lindsay, who was still searching the kitchen for a teapot she seemed to remember her mother shoving into a corner of some box or other, and swung out of the building, phoning Mac as she did.

"Where am I meeting you, Mac?"

Peyton closed the door behind Stella, smiling as she recalled one of Sheldon's favourite nicknames for his co-worker: Hurricane Stella indeed. She certainly moved like a force of nature, and according to everything Mac had said about her, she could blow fresh air through nearly any situation. Peyton understood why Mac had counted on her for so long – still did, come to that. Trust did not come easily to him, and once earned, he held fast.

She shivered a little as she went to help Lindsay in the kitchen. Being with a man so intense had its drawbacks; Peyton was used to being with someone who could give a little, bend a little. She sometimes felt in over her head with Mac Taylor.

But it could be a glorious sensation. A smile curved her lips as she thought back to Saturday night – when he had pulled her into his arms, lifting her feet off the ground to step into the house, she had known that his doubts were over. And he was not a man to leave others' doubts lingering. They had not got out of bed from 9 that evening until nearly 7 the next morning – no phone calls, no frantic knocking on the door, no sirens calling Mac from her arms as they so often had in the past.

He had been passionate, sweet, and demanding in turn, and she had fallen even more in love with him when he slept in her arms, finally at peace. She had been content before to let the relationship drift along, but no longer. She wanted more – wanted it all. For the first time, she thought that was a possibility.

"Will this do, Peyton? I can't find anything else," Lindsay came around the door to the kitchen, holding a glass coffee pot.

Peyton smiled and said cheerfully, "We'll make do. Come on. Let's get some food into you."

When Lindsay, relieved, turned around, Peyton rolled her eyes in dismay. Only an American would think of making a proper cup of tea in glass.


	23. Chapter 23: Fighting the Beast Within

_A/N: Again, I have to give credit for a line, in this case Stella's line regarding Lindsay's and her situations at the end of the chapter: mercy4vr was the 200__th__ reviewer of this story, and asked that this be included. Thanks, mercy4vr, for the line as well as the permission! _

* * *

_**The Forest Primeval** _

_The howl of the predator skirls through the night_

_Echoing off the buildings that tower above the street_

_Call to call, blood to blood, the pack gathers_

_To prey upon the weak, to strengthen the bond._

_Some cower, some scatter, some find a place to hide_

_But some – the few – stand tall against the threat,_

_Stand shoulder to shoulder to face the menace_

_To hazard all against the forces that batter at the bastions._

_SMT2007_

* * *

**Chapter 23: Fighting the Beast Within**

"Mac? Mac, is that you?" The voice sounded younger than it usually did, and a little groggy, but definitely was Reed's.

"Reed? Where are you? Are you all right?" Mac was racing out the doors as he spoke, gathering up Stella in his wake.

"I don't know. I'm all right, I mean, but I don't know where I am. I think – ah! – I think I'm in a warehouse? Maybe? It's big, anyway?" Reed's exclamation of pain had Mac moving faster.

"Are you confined? Can you get to a window? Get outside? Find me a cross street, a landmark, Reed. Stay on the line with me, okay?"

Stella had her phone out, ordering a GPS trace on Reed's phone. Then she put in a call to the uniformed officers to assist as soon as they had a location.

Mac could hear Reed moving around, but he had stopped talking, "Reed, report. Tell me what you're doing. Keep talking."

As Stella and Mac passed the waiting room, the Garretts leaped to their feet. Miranda grabbed Stella's arm, "What's happening? Is it Reed? Please – tell us something!"

Stella stopped, trying to school her face not to show the impatience she felt. "He's phoned Mac; we're trying to get a location from his cell. As soon as we know anything, we'll tell you, I promise, but right now we have to move. Mrs. Garrett, he's talking, and seems to be okay. That's a good sign."

Miranda Garret collapsed into one of the visitors' chairs, and Stella saw that her husband was doing his best to comfort her. She had to run to catch up with Mac, who was still talking to Reed as he hit the stairs.

"What can you see out the window? No, don't climb up, Reed, you could get hurt and then it will be harder for you to report to me. Move back and see if there is anything you recognize in the skyline."

Mac kept talking him through a cursory examination of the place he had woken up in, but personally, Mac was counting on technology to locate the boy.

"Got it!" Stella directed Mac to the nearest car as she hung up on Adam and sent out a radio call to the uniforms, giving them the address of the deserted warehouse down by the port where Reed's signal had been tracked. Sirens blaring, lights flashing, the police cars muscled their way through the grudging New York streets, arriving at the warehouse some fifteen minutes after Reed's call had come through.

Mac was still talking, although Reed had stopped responding when they were still a few minutes from the warehouse. Stella hoped his phone had just lost battery power; she could tell from Mac's strained face that he hoped that too. His voice remained calm, with a slight hint of command stiffening it, and Stella knew that, if he could hear it, Reed would feel better for it – would feel Mac was treating him as an adult in a serious situation and not as a child who had got into trouble.

Police cars, an ambulance, and a fire truck all arrived at the warehouse at virtually the same time, and Mac quickly deployed the men to search the warehouse. "He's on an upper level, he thought," Mac said, "He could see just the tops of buildings. Be careful; we have no idea what else is in there."

Teams of armed men swept through the building, Mac leading the way. It seemed like an eternity, but actually it was only about ten minutes before Mac's voice crackled through the communicator, "He's here, top floor. I need the EMTs and a stretcher."

"No, you don't," Stella could hear Reed's aggrieved voice start up, and she grinned. He sounded like every other man she had ever worked with; he was going to be okay.

Grabbing her phone, she moved away from the building a little to get a clear signal and call the station. Reed's parents needed to be told as soon as possible.

"Hi, Juarez? Tell the Garretts to meet us at Queen of Mercy's ER," she lifted her eyebrows inquiringly at the EMT with the nearby ambulance to check that was the destined hospital, and went on, reassured, "ETA fifteen minutes. And Juarez? Keep it under control, okay? We don't want a media circus out there."

She sighed. Put together Miranda Garrett, high-powered New York City Councilor, and Mac Taylor, highly decorated New York City Detective, in a bizarre struggle over an appealing 19 year old, add in the ever-thrilling hint of Mob activity, and she could feel the vultures circling overhead before she could turn around.

"And oh, look," she said brightly as Jared Cross of WNYW stuck a microphone in her face, "The vultures arrive."

"Detective Bonasera, we had a report of a shoot-out at this location, and a teenager dead or wounded in the building. Care to comment?"

"Statements will be made at the usual time and place, Mr. Cross. I recommend that you wait behind the Crime Scene tape and stay tuned for information when it becomes available."

"I understand that Detective Mac Taylor's son is in the warehouse. What do you know about that? Was he shot? Is he a suspect? Is the Mob involved?" Cross continued to shout questions as Stella walked away towards the building.

"Keep the kid out of sight of the cameras, could you?" she said quietly to the stretcher-bearers as they went into the building. "He's Councilwoman Garrett's son; you don't need her on your case for helping to splash his face all over the 6:00 news."

They nodded briskly; in a city where anybody could be somebody, they were used to taking precautions. The driver backed the bus up close to the warehouse doors, and Reed was moved swiftly and discreetly into it. Mac climbed in with him, nodding when Stella said, "Meet you there." His face, though still strained, had lost the grey look she had noticed earlier; Reed must be okay, and was already talking a blue streak, she thought with a laugh. Even over the siren, she could hear him voicing a loud opinion against needing to go to the hospital, against having his mother informed, against not being fed immediately.

Stella pulled out her phone, and went to hit speed dial for Flack; then she paused. She had already been pulled away from Lindsay; if Don were called in too, Danny would be left alone. Don wasn't on shift, and there were certainly enough detectives around to deal with the case. With a sigh, she closed up her phone and went through the doors to process the scene. They didn't need Flack.

It was a little worrying that she felt she did.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-

"I'm glad to hear that; tell Mac to take it easy on him, okay? He'll require nutrition and hydration, but it sounds like he'll recover quickly. Do you need me to call anyone? His girlfriend?" Peyton was quiet a moment, only nodding occasionally, but Lindsay could hear Stella's brisk tones. "All right then. I'll see you when you get here, Stella; there's no rush."

Lindsay finished washing the dishes; Peyton had whipped up a mound of scrambled eggs and a pot of tomato basil soup, and Lindsay had cleaned her plate in minutes, vaguely surprised at how hungry she actually was. Then Peyton had insisted on Lindsay having a shower while she placed a quick grocery order to be delivered. Lindsay had done what she was told, too drained to do anything else. She had fallen asleep on her bed, although she wasn't sure for how long, only waking up when she heard the phone ring.

Lindsay wandered into the kitchen, listening idly to Peyton's side of the conversation, and began to clean up the kitchen and prepare the dishes for washing, glad for a few minutes' space to think.

Everything had happened too fast, and yet it had been nearly three weeks since she had been in this apartment, nearly three since she had been in the lab. She could feel her hands itching to get back to work, to do more than uselessly wring themselves over things she could not control.

Montana had been a shock; it had all seemed oddly small, almost compressed. Too much had happened there, and she couldn't quite get a hold of anything. She wanted to be alone. She wanted to sleep. She wanted Danny.

Peyton walked into the kitchen in time to grab the plate just as it dropped from Lindsay's hand, "Whoa! I would have done that! Come on, let's sit down." Swiftly she guided Lindsay to a chair, pushing her head between her knees and grabbing a glass of water. "There we go, love, drink that slowly."

The doorbell rang, and Peyton, with a worried glance back at Lindsay, ran to open it, allowing Stella into the apartment.

"Peyton? Linds okay?"

Peyton shook her head, and led the way back into the kitchen. Stella sat down beside Lindsay, now leaning her head on her hands, while Peyton offered her the water again.

Lindsay sat up and took the glass, eyes wide and stunned. "I'm in love with Danny Messer."

Peyton watched her carefully, gauging the colour in her face, her fingers checking the rapid beating of her pulse. "Of course you are, love. You've been in love with him forever."

Lindsay shook her head a little frantically, "No. No. I wasn't. I mean, I liked him, but I told him we couldn't – I told I wasn't – I told him it wasn't him.…" her voice faded and she took another, bigger sip of water.

"That was before Montana?" Stella surmised. Poor Danny: of all the lines to throw at him, Lindsay had picked the one most calculated to strike to the heart, the one Danny could never believe. It was always him.

"I knew I was in love with him in Montana. You should have seen him, Stel. I saw him get shot – I was watching out the window and I saw the bullet go through him. I watched it hit the ground before he did. I could have walked out and picked it up from under him. There was so much blood. I knew he was dead. He had to be dead. I grabbed the gun, and sat in the chair. Then Ross walked into the cabin…"

Lindsay's voice was calm, even cold as she went through Ross's confession. She had said it so many times already that every word was etched into her brain like a song she could never forget. Peyton did not react, and Lindsay was as grateful for that as she was for Stella's hand wrapped warmly around hers.

"I shot him. I knew what I was doing. I could have just wounded him, but I shot him in the chest. I knew it was a kill shot. I just wanted it over. He'd killed Danny, killed my friends. I just had to end it." Lindsay stopped and put her hands over her face.

Peyton said nothing. She didn't know what to say, so contented herself with putting an arm around Lindsay's shoulders.

Stella said, "Lindsay. Look at me."

Lindsay looked up into Stella's clear green eyes and remembered. Stella had shot a man too, in a haze of pain, fear, and rage. If anyone could understand, it would be Stella.

"You did what you had to do." Stella took Lindsay's hands more firmly as she started to protest. "Yes, you did. You had no choice. You are not the one to blame here. He had killed your friends. He had shot your partner. He had a gun on you. You didn't know that Danny was alive. You didn't know that John was on his way. For all you knew, you were alone. You had to shoot to kill."

Lindsay stared at her piteously.

"Lindsay, you and I both were made to feel like victims, victims of madmen who controlled us. But they are wrong – everyone who said that was wrong. We survived, and we took care of ourselves. We can't always keep things from happening to us, Linds: bad things happen. But we can control how we see ourselves, how we deal with those bad things."

Stella took a deep breath and waited until Lindsay was looking her in the eye again, then said firmly, "_Victimized, yes; victims, no._ What they do to us is not our responsibility. How we deal with it is."

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-

The game was over: the Sabres had lived down to Danny's low expectations and been knocked out of the playoffs by Ottawa. A couple of empty pizza boxes sat on the floor, with a couple of empty beer bottles beside them. Danny still lay on the couch, eyes closed against the pain that wouldn't quite go away. Don sat in the chair, flipping idly through the channels trying to find something on that didn't totally suck. Crime shows and reruns of _Friends. _Talk about drek.

He glanced over at Danny on the couch, whose arm was flung over his eyes. He felt like he should ask him how he was doing, get him to talk about what had happened in Montana, but the very thought made him wince with embarrassment. It just wasn't his style to go all head-shrink on a friend. He'd had to do it for team members, for men under his command when things went wrong. But that was different: that was the job. Danny – Danny went beyond the job. He'd always been beyond the job.

"What?" Danny said.

"What?" Flack answered.

"I can feel you looking at me over here, Flack. What's up?"

"I don't know. You want to talk about what happened?" Flack offered, feeling even more like an idiot.

Danny was silent so long Flack gave a sigh of relief. At least that was out of the way.

"I can hear coyotes," Danny said, finally.

"What? Like right now?" Flack glanced around the apartment.

"When I'm going to sleep. Or waking up. When I'm dreaming, sometimes."

"What do you think that means?" Flack asked carefully.

Danny shivered, "I know what it means. After the bullet hit me, I was lying in the snow – don't know how long. I could hear them, getting closer. Just one at first, then more. They were calling the pack in. If I hadn't made it out…" his voice trailed off.

Flack rolled a beer bottle between his hands before taking a drink. He decided there was nothing useful to offer here, so shutting up seemed the best choice.

"The first time I met Montana was at the zoo, remember?" Danny said it softly, almost dreamily. "She asked if I had ever seen what a full-grown black bear could do to a man. I knew I was in trouble from that moment on."

Flack snickered softly. It hadn't been hard to see, even with eyes and nose streaming from the allergy that evidently even jungle cats triggered in him. No one else had even had a look-in with Lindsay – she had been tagged the moment Messer gave her the nickname.

"You guys okay?" He said it carefully, not completely sure how much he wanted to hear. Danny and he had shared many things, including a girl or two on occasion, but he had to work with Lindsay. There were some images he didn't need in his head.

There was no answer from the couch. Flack got up and threw a blanket over Danny's sleeping form. Having spent a night or two on that couch in the past, Flack had no hesitation in taking the bed; of the two, the expensive couch was the more comfortable.

And when Danny woke up in a cold sweat in the middle of night to the fading sound of harsh voices and howling coyotes, he was grateful for the distraction provided by the television turned low and the city turned high.


	24. Chapter 24: Turning a Corner

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY. Poetry not otherwise referenced is original._

_A/N: Yet another thank-you, this time to SavvyAngel, who kindly gave me permission to use my favourite new word to describe Adam and his ilk! Merci beaucoup!_

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

* * *

_**Obsession**_

_And just when I thought I had figured me out_

_Knew where I was going and why_

_And just when I knew what I wanted and whom_

_I turned back and opened my eyes_

'_Cause I thought that the world was shades of deep blue_

_But it turns out to be only colours of you _

_And where I was going has vanished away_

_While I stopped to take breath and start a new day_

_And now I know that I know nothing at all_

_Except you._

_SMT2007_

* * *

**Chapter 24: Turning a Corner**

"It's an interesting place, Lissa. Have you been there?" Hawkes barely noticed her nod as he went on, "They have a little courtyard in between all the buildings, in the centre of the block. It is full of trees and plants – I don't know how they grow there without much sun. The children in the neighbourhood seem to spend time there after school; they all were pretty comfortable with the doctors. And Rica – have you met her?"

Lissa nodded again, opening her mouth to speak, but Hawkes talked right over her, "She knows everybody, been around forever, she says. She made me think of your grandmother, you know? She was like that – she'd have been in everybody's business and helped keep them on the straight and narrow."

The food came to the table, and Lissa took the opportunity to finally break in, "So, you liked the place?"

Hawkes laughed at her wry tone, and slowed down. He took a bite of the pasta he had ordered without paying much attention, and then smiled at her, "Yes. I liked the place. Are you still thinking of working there?"

Lissa took a bite of her pasta, then reached over and took a bite of his to compare. "I would in a flash, but I don't know how much longer they'll be able to keep going."

"How come? They seem to be doing good business." Hawkes speared a piece of Italian sausage off Lissa's plate and tried it.

"Well, free clinic, right? The more people in, the more expensive it is to run. And I heard that the funding is in some trouble."

"Who funds it?"

Lissa propped her chin up on her hand and looked at Hawkes, "Hard to tell, which is the other thing that makes me a little nervous. I know Nasreen put a lot of money into it when she joined. And I mean a lot. Miriam and Kathleen couldn't have kept going without it."

"Where did it come from? Do you know?"

"I heard it was insurance. Her husband was a lawyer with the UN, moved down from Canada. He was killed the day of 9/11, shot dead in the street. The police never solved the crime. Word is they didn't try too hard."

Hawkes opened his mouth, whether to defend the police or not, he wasn't sure.

Lissa put up a hand to stop him, anyway, shrugging, "I know, I know. There was a lot going on at the time, but it took them nearly a week even to interview the family, and only then because of the UN connection. Nasreen seems not to feel any bitterness; she just says …"

"_It was a bad time_," Hawkes completed the sentence.

"She told you," Lissa looked at him curiously.

Hawkes just nodded.

"Anyway, there are other rumours – that there is international money being funneled through the clinic; that the funders are backing other, not so legitimate businesses. It's not a popular place, so if talk can bring it down, they'll use that. It's not as messy as bombs."

Hawkes' eyebrows rose.

"No one seems to be making much money, though, so I don't know whether there is any truth to it. I do know that every doctor has had her share of death threats." She shrugged again at Sheldon's shocked look.

"They do abortions, Shel, as well as give out birth control. Radicals on all sides don't like women taking care of women, I guess."

"Who are the threats from specifically?"

"No one – not specifically. The beat cops do hourly drive-bys to keep an eye on things, but otherwise there isn't much anyone can do." Lissa took a sip of wine and applied herself to her pasta.

Hawkes looked at her; some of the light she usually radiated seemed to have gone out. He put a gentle hand on her arm, "What's up, Lissa? You seem a little off tonight."

She looked down at his hand, swallowed hard, then summoned a smile. "I'm sorry, Sheldon, I think I'll have to cut tonight short. I have a headache and it just isn't going away. Look, I'm just going to get a cab home, okay?"

Sheldon looked at her with concern, "Don't be silly; I'm parked just down the block. Come on, I'll take you home."

He didn't listen to her protest, sorting out the bill, running to get the car, and tucking her into the front seat carefully. He didn't ask her any questions as he drove her home; he simply drove quickly and efficiently, stopping just outside her apartment building. She had her eyes closed, and he reached over to gently touch her arm.

"Lissa? I'll walk you up, okay? You don't look good." He was starting to worry; her eyes were deeply shadowed and her face was a little pulled.

Her eyes flew open and she immediately said, "No, no, don't be silly, Shel. I'm just tired. I'll take something for the head and I'll be fine." She opened the door and started to swing herself out the door, but then stopped and quickly leaned over and pressed her lips to his cheek.

"Thanks, Shel," she said quietly, and in a breath, she was gone.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-

"I said no, Danny, and that is all there is to it," Mac's voice was firm as he sat back in his chair behind the desk piled high with case files. He had pulled an all-nighter for the first time in months, and hadn't even made a dent in the paperwork.

"Look, Mac, it's obvious you could use the help," Danny argued. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Lindsay biting her lip, but he ignored her. "I'll stay in the lab, no field work. I'll do short shifts and book out if it gets too much, I swear. But you gotta let me come back to work; I'll go flat out nuts if I have to stay home even one day."

Mac sighed and sat forward, his hands grasped in front of him on top of the most pressing case, one he couldn't even get to because Adam was so backed up in the lab. Six files under that one was the case file for Reed's abduction; he couldn't carve out enough time to even figure out what had happened.

All he knew at the moment was that Reed was safe and at home, having been checked out by the hospital and had his statement taken. Mac had read through it and had sighed for the lack of specifics: he'd been grabbed on his way to the cafeteria Monday night, been held in a room, eyes taped shut, bound and gagged until Wednesday afternoon, when the bindings had been taken off his hands and his cellphone had been dropped beside him. Nothing had been said, no demands had been made, no trace had been found in the room or the building.

"Dr. Martens phoned from Montana before you left, Danny. He said a month. Minimum. You too, Lindsay. Neither of you should be anywhere near the lab right now. Go home. Get some rest. Come and see me next week: we'll set up a return to work schedule. A slow one." His phone rang, and Danny's exclamation of disgust was stifled as Mac put up his hand.

"Excuse me one moment, sir." Mac put his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone and said, "Danny, Lindsay. Could you please give me a minute? Don't go, though. I want to finish this with you." He waited until they had left his office, then turned around to look over the city as the voice on the other end of the phone spoke, his face growing grim and tense as he listened.

Danny leaned against the wall, trying not to glare at Mac through the office window. Lindsay had her arms crossed and was tapping her foot. He glanced at her and grinned, "What?"

She blew a frustrated sigh out, "I told you, Danny. It's too soon. The insurance won't cover us if something goes wrong."

"What could go wrong in the lab?" he countered, the picture of cool logic. "Do you know how many days Hawkes has had off in the past three weeks? Two," he said in answer to the shake of her head. "Two days in three weeks. And one of those he spent chasing down info to help us in Montana. Stella? Adam? They've all been going full out. I may not be fit to go into the field for a week or so, but I can damn well work a microscope."

He ran a gentle finger down Lindsay's cheek, which was still too pale for his liking. "I told you not to come in with me. You should be sleeping."

She smiled at him, "I slept last night. Not quite as well as I did in Montana." Peyton had finally sedated her, but she didn't think she needed to tell Danny that. "I sleep better when you are there."

Danny smiled back, "Me too. Linds, we haven't talked …"

Mac stepped out of his office, "Lindsay? Danny? Could I speak to you both, please?" His face was set and angry.

He motioned for them to sit in front of him, and looked down at his hands before clearing his throat, "I have been authorized to allow you both back on restricted duty, starting tomorrow. That's Friday."

Danny looked up in delight: Lindsay looked at Danny with trepidation. "That's great, Mac. Thanks!"

"It's not great, it's ridiculous. But they just pulled three detectives and a whole team of lab techs off to work on Gerrard's new and improved Organized Crime Unit. So I am even more strapped than I was a week ago. Danny, you are teching for at least two weeks, you got that? No field, no gun, you don't leave the building under any circumstances whatsoever. You mess me around on this and I'll boot you home for the full month, even if I have to train a monkey for the lab work." He turned to Lindsay, "That goes for you too. You are both on _restricted_ assignment; no more than four hours on shift, and if you can't do it, you book out. Nothing gets missed, lost, forgotten, or screwed up because you aren't fit."

"Yes, sir," they said in perfect unison, and Mac sighed.

"I'll see you here tomorrow morning: 9am sharp."

Lindsay smiled, "Thanks, Mac."

"You won't be sorry, boss, I promise," Danny said, as they walked out of the office.

"I already am," Mac grumbled under his breath. But he couldn't quite keep the smile off his face. His team. He had his team back.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-

"Hey, Adam! Adam?" Lindsay waved a hand in front of Adam's face, "You okay?"

Adam brought his puzzled gaze from his computer screen to focus on Lindsay and nodded, blushing furiously.

"Well?" she asked expectantly.

"Sorry? Well, what?"

Lindsay sighed a little impatiently. "My results, Adam? Do you have my DNA results yet?"

"Umm, no? There was a bit of a mix-up? I have to do them again, and they'll take a few minutes?" As always, Adam only just managed to keep from stuttering around Lindsay, feeling like he was going to swallow his tongue any minute. His voice rose at the end of most sentences, betraying his uncertainty.

Lindsay slowed her breathing down. There was never any point in abusing Adam and asking him for something he didn't have; it just made him more nervous. Besides, she was tired and sore, and could use a few minutes' break. Coming back to work had been more stressful than she had thought it would be; she kept watching for Danny to crash. So far this morning, he was doing considerably better than she was.

She pulled a chair over with her bad foot and sat down, looking around for another chair to put her foot up on.

Adam followed her gaze and immediately leapt out of his chair, offering it to her. She smiled up at him, her eyes soft. "You don't need to give up your chair, Adam; there's one right over there, if you could grab it?"

Flustered, he did that, and made sure she was comfortable before taking his seat again. He turned back to his computer and realized with a sense of frozen disbelief that Aisha's last email was still on screen. As he moved to close the frame, Lindsay sat forward.

"What are you working on?" she asked casually.

"Nothing. I mean this is nothing. I mean I'm working on your samples, and this is nothing. I was just taking a minute to check my email … I mean … I guess I know I shouldn't really do it at work, but I have a lot of time, you know … I mean sometimes when I am waiting for results, like I am for you right now, you know… and then I sometimes just …" his voice finally gave out, his usually pale face now crimson with embarrassment.

Lindsay looked at him with gentle pity. "Adam, breathe. How much overtime have you put in?"

"Well, I guess about fifteen hours so far, but I'll have to stay late tonight because one of the techs mislabeled all the samples from Hawkes' case with samples from Stella's case, so I'll have to re-run all those, and then there are still some follow-up tests for the pollen case … I'm still trying to isolate the fetal DNA and identify the pollen and determine if there are any usable epithelials on it and …" his voice ran out again as she smiled at him.

"That's fifteen hours overtime this month?"

Flushing again, he shook his head. "Week," he croaked out.

"That's overtime for this week? Oh, Adam, I don't think even Mac could complain about you checking your email on company time when the company owes you so much. Just relax."

"Okay," he nodded jerkily, and turned to close the window.

"Who's the message from?" Lindsay had her eyes closed; she needed to keep talking in order to keep the waiting headache at bay.

Adam jumped a little, and he glanced at her guiltily. "Just a person."

"Hmmm. A guy-type person or a girl-type person?" Lindsay's lips curved into a smile. She was pretty sure what the answer would be, if she could understand it.

"Girl." Adam nearly bit his tongue out.

Lindsay's eyes flew open, and she sat forward with a bit of a grin, grabbing his arm lightly.

"Adam, who is she? Do I know her? How long have you been seeing her? What does she look like? Tell me!" Her eyes shone; she was hardly ever the first to know anything, and Adam with a girlfriend was big news!

"Uh…Uh…Uh…" There was the stuttering, Adam thought, and cursed inwardly.

"I'm sorry, I didn't give you much time to answer, did I?" She smiled charmingly at him. "Let's try it again. What's her name?"

"Aisha."

"Pretty! How long have you been seeing her?" When he shook his head a little violently, Lindsay raised an eyebrow and corrected, "Talking to her?"

He nodded with relief and said, "About four weeks."

"But you haven't met?" Lindsay surmised.

He shook his head, and mumbled, "Stood me up."

"Oh, Adam, I'm sorry. Look, if it's any help, I stood Danny up the first time he asked me out too." Lindsay laughed when Adam sputtered. Honestly, if his eyes got any bigger, they might just fall right out of his head, she thought.

"I was scared; it seemed like such a big step. It took me a while to get up enough courage to try. Maybe Aisha is just shy?'

Adam though about the photograph she had sent him the first week he had been in touch with her, an artistic nude which showed him everything but her face. He shook his head, "Not shy."

Lindsay nodded thoughtfully. "Well, you should keep trying. Who knows? She might be the one!" She stood up to go back to her lab. "Thanks for the chair, Adam. I just needed to get off my foot for a moment. Call me when you get the results, would you?" She smiled at him sweetly and turned to go.

"Ummm, Lindsay?" His voice broke a little on her name, but she turned around and looked at him quizzically as if she hadn't noticed.

"What do you suppose _adorkable _means?" His face was flaming again.

"Sorry? Adorable?" She furrowed her brow; Adam often spoke too fast for people slower than bats to understand properly.

"No. It says _a-dork-able._" He motioned to the screen as he pronounced the unfamiliar word slowly.

"Oh. I see." And she did see, she thought. Smiling, she leaned a little towards Adam and put a hand on his shoulder to whisper in his ear. "Don't worry. If it's what I think it is, it's a good thing. Sort of liking you a lot for being the kind of person you are." She walked out of the room, waving to him.

Adam sat frozen in his chair, feeling her breath on his cheek, his body burning where she had touched him.


	25. Chapter 25: Going Digging

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY. Poetry not otherwise referenced is original._

_A/N: Thanks as always to both readers and reviewers! _

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

* * *

_**What Speaks Louder**_

_Words_

_Get in the way_

_Of what I want to say_

_You hear_

_What you listen for._

_Words_

_Can be weapons_

_Can be disguises_

_Can be smoke _

_But even if _

_Actions_

_Are mirrors and_

_Speak louder than _

_Words_

_They can still_

_Lie_

_SMT2007_

* * *

**Chapter 25: Going Digging**

Stella came into the lab and wrapped an arm casually around Lindsay's shoulder. "I'm glad to have you two back, you know that, but aren't you supposed to be booking out at noon?" she admonished the young woman.

"I will, I promise. Well," Lindsay corrected herself, "Not at noon, obviously, seeing as it's … oh. Is it really after 2 o'clock?" She pushed the hair out of her face and glanced at the wall clock.

"Yes, it really is, and you've been here since 9 o'clock, which means you have put in a five hour shift already. How is this easing back into the job?" Stella pushed her into a nearby chair.

"I'm fine, Stel. Really. I just had to finish running these tests for Mac; at least we've managed to get a few things cleared away today. Hey, aren't you on the Central Park case? Adam finally got the DNA results from the five priests at St Augustine's, but there were no epithelials on the pollen – no way to tell who put it on Caitlin's face."

"We know who," Stella said absently, as she skimmed the report Lindsay handed her. "It was a woman who hangs out in the park – they call her Mother Tina. She thought she could heal the girl, or at least sanctify her, maybe. She's a bee nut. Hawkes and I talked to her on Thursday morning. He got some info from one of the doctors at the clinic. Well," she slapped the file against her hand, "This ought to put a smile on Flack's face. Which will be a good thing, believe me! He's been like a bear with a sore head all week over this case!"

"Stella, can I ask you something?"

Stella stopped in mid-flight, took one look at Lindsay's worried face and sat down, all impatience gone, "Sure, kiddo, what is it?"

"You and Flack? How is that working?" Lindsay blurted it out, and instantly regretted it when she saw Stella's face close up. "I'm sorry; I don't mean to gossip or pry. I just … I don't know how to do this. I mean … Danny and me…" She faltered to a stop, and Stella's face softened.

"Lindsay, Flack and I don't work with each other, and we don't live with each other, not like Danny and you are doing. We're just," she hesitated a moment, searching for the right word, "seeing each other. It's easier to have a little distance, maybe."

"We're not really living together. I mean, he stayed over last night because he fell asleep, and there are no stairs at my place and …"

Stella nodded. "I know what you mean."

"It all seemed pretty simple in Montana. We were together; that's all there was to it. Nothing else was real, you know?" She looked at Stella, not sure she was making any sense at all, but her friend was nodding, her eyes suspiciously bright.

Lindsay sighed, "Now we're home, and Danny wants to be back at work, because it makes everything seem normal, but it's not. I keep seeing the blood, Stella!" She was starting to shake, and Stella reached over to take her hand comfortingly, "And it's all… complicated."

Stella chewed a lip thoughtfully, "Have you talked about it? About what you want, I mean?"

Lindsay shook her head, "I can't. Every time I try, I freeze up. I'm drifting … I just sort of follow him, you know."

Stella frowned, "Wait. I thought it was Danny that didn't want to talk."

Flushing, Lindsay shook her head.

"Have you talked to anyone?"

She shook her head again.

"Oh, Linds. What is going on? You need to work some of this stuff out."

Frustrated, Lindsay rubbed her forehead. "I don't need to talk to anyone else. Do you know how many therapists I've seen in the past? They don't help. I just need to find a way to move on."

Stella thought for a minute, still tapping the file folder Lindsay had handed her idly against the table. "Okay. Let me think about this for a little bit. In the meantime, you are going home."

Lindsay nodded, relieved to have someone else making decisions, "As soon as I finish this …"

Stella stood up and took Lindsay's arm. "Now, Lindsay. Go home, or go to Danny's. Better yet, go get him and get out of the lab. Otherwise, Mac will revoke your privileges, especially since you've cleared some of his back-log for him. I bet Danny won't go until you do."

Lindsay rubbed her forehead; the headache that had been dogging her since she talked to Adam early that morning was still hovering, like a storm cloud just waiting to hit. But there was something else that was bothering her.

"You speak Italian, don't you Stel?" Lindsay tried without much success to keep her voice casual.

"Yeah, some. How come?" Stella looked up curiously from the file she was looking over again.

Lindsay shrugged a little uncomfortably. "I need a translation for some words."

"Is it a case?"

"Not really."

"So who's been speaking Italian to you?"

"Danny."

"Danny? He doesn't speak Italian," Stella sat back in her chair in surprise, blinking.

"Uh-huh. Sometimes. When … he's sleeping, sometimes," Lindsay blushed brightly, and Stella hid her smile.

"What does _danno _mean?" Lindsay pronounced it carefully. "Or _danniegetto?"_

"Umm, they're conjugations of the verb _to give._"

"What about _per favore_? That means _please_, doesn't it?"

Stella just nodded.

"And _non gridero_?" Lindsay's face was set with concentration.

Stella looked up at her, a touch of alarm in her eyes. "_I won't cry – I'm not crying_. Lindsay, was _Danny _saying this?"

Lindsay nodded. "In his sleep. He was dreaming, I guess. By why does he dream in Italian, Stel? I mean, I know how he knows Italian, but when he told me about her he clearly loved her very much."

Stella's face was a study as she tried to put things together. "Who taught him Italian, Linds?"

"His grandmother. She came from Sicily when he was little and lived with them until she died when he was about 13. She only spoke Italian, at least to him. He learned, but Louie wouldn't. _Nonna_ means grandmother in Italian, doesn't it?"

Lindsay tagged the evidence she had finished processing, and slid off the stool, wincing a little as her foot hit the ground. At Danny's insistence, a fiberglass cast had been put on, to keep her from taking it off whenever she got impatient.

She was almost at the door when she stopped and said very casually, "Stella? What does '_Siete la luce della mia anima'_ mean?"

Stella said softly, "_You are the light of my soul_."

Headache receding just a little, Lindsay sighed as she walked out the door, the soft light in her eyes matching the smile on Stella's face.

She did want to go home. She did want to be with Danny.

She just couldn't figure out how those two sentences fit together now that she was back here in New York.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-

"Danny! What the hell are you still doing here?" Mac's voice was sharp, but his eyes were worried as he took in the graying face of his investigator.

"Look, Mac," Danny said, brushing off his superior's concern. "I got DNA from the duct tape that Reed pulled off his eyes and ankles. The guy wore gloves, sure enough but," Danny mimed the motions the kidnapper would have gone through, "He pulled the tape off the roll, bound Reed's feet, bound his hands, then gagged him," Danny mimed tearing the tape three times with his teeth, "But forgot to bring scissors!" He grinned in triumph as Mac's face broke into a relieved smile.

"So, do we have an ID?"

"Believe it or not, we do," Danny turned to the machine that was spitting out information. "Robert Taglia. Known as Tag. Younger brother to Joseph Taglia Jr. Both connected to the Luccheses. Both work construction for Messer and Sons, just like their pop, Joe Sr., does."

His face, which had been jubilant a moment before, hardened, leaving him pale and strained, his voice harsh and cold.

"Danny," Mac started, putting a hand on his shoulder and giving him a gentle push.

"Naw, s'okay, Mac. It's not like I ain't known it my whole life. Uncle Gino never brought no good news 'round my house." Danny's accent thickened as it always did when he became emotional. "My ma, she hated him, and my dad was afraid of him. When Louie ditched Tanglewood, he went to work for him. Ya' can't tell me nothin' 'bout Gino that would surprise me."

Mac was looking towards the door, his face a little shuttered in warning. Danny looked over his shoulder to see a pale and slightly shaky Lindsay looking at him with a question in her eyes.

"Damn, Linds, you should have gone home hours ago," Danny exclaimed, reaching out a gentle hand to push her hair out of her eyes.

Lindsay rolled her eyes at Mac, "Mac, could we leave now, please?"

"Take each other home. We'll continue this in the morning. I promise, Danny, I'll keep you in it as long as I can. But if it starts getting close, you know what I have to do," Mac started straight into Danny's eyes, giving a personal pledge.

Danny nodded, defeated. No matter how fast he ran, his past just kept catching up.

"Danny?" Lindsay said, worry lacing through her exhaustion and the headache that had finally descended.

He put an arm around her and led her out of the lab, looking back over his shoulder at his boss. "I'll be in tomorrow."

"We'll talk then. I promise," Mac said firmly.

Mac watched them out the door, then took out his phone and hit speed dial, "Flack? We need to talk. And we need Mouse Mauser."

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-

Flack came striding into the Crime Lab two hours after Mac's call; it had been a mercifully short trip over the bridge this time, even with a detour. He had Mouse in tow; the small man was glaring resentfully at the oblivious detective, sniffing and rubbing his nose on his filthy sleeve.

Flack opened the door to an interrogation room, "Here you go, Mouse, first class accommodation for a first class guy."

"Come on, Flack, why you gotta do me like this?" Mouse whined. "I gave you the straight gen. I told you everything I know. I ain't heard nothing more. You told me to 9-1-1 you if I got the 4-1-1 – you heard from me? You think I'd jerk you around?"

Flack sat back in his chair, an amused smirk on his face.

"What? Whaddya doing here?" Mouse said sulkily.

"I'm just enjoying the show, Mouse. It's an education listening to you, it really is. Now, you just sit tight and enjoy the peace and quiet of our little home away from home. I got someone else who wants to listen to you, and you better be getting the answers right, Mouse. 'Cause you ain't never seen jerking 'til you've felt me jerk your collar, and if I were to frisk you right now, I'm pretty sure I'd find something to nail you on in your right-hand pocket, now wouldn't I?"

Flack walked out to find Mac, a satisfied look on his face.

"Flack! Hey, I've been calling – your cellphone went to voice mail. I have some results for you from the St Augustine case." Stella caught up to him in the hallway, file folder in hand.

He glanced around, and pulled her into an empty interrogation room and into his arms, his mouth meeting hers in a kiss hot and wild. She responded as always, her body simply giving in to him, completely surrendering to his need. Still, she was the first to step back when she heard footsteps in the hall, hands reluctant to leave him.

"Hello, Stella," he said softly.

"Hello, Don." She smiled back at him, then picked up the file folder she had dropped. She handed it to him, "The DNA results from the priests at St Augustine's."

Flack flipped the folder open, and glanced through the file, pulling an eloquent grimace of relief when he found "NO MATCH" beside Tony Reagan's name. Quickly he pulled out the matching file, and his eyebrows rose to impossible heights at the name. "Father Antonelli?"

Stella nodded, solemnly. "Adam checked twice."

"Stel, the man must be in his 70s. He was my parish priest, for God's sake." Flack looked at her in horror. "Shit, Stella. Do you realize what this means?"

"He could have been doing this a long time, Flack. Who knows how many other girls he's been with?"

Flack turned away from her, emotion filling his face. "Fuck."

Stella put a gentle hand on his arm. "You need to turn this over to another detective, Flack. You can't be on this case. Talk to your captain. It'll be shifted to the Child Abuse and Exploitation Task Force in Albany."

Flack shrugged uncomfortably, "I know. And then probably to the Feds, if it goes deep enough. Shit, Stel. This guy took my confession for years. He led my confirmation classes. I didn't like him; he scared the shit out of us. But he was our priest." A deep anger began burning in his gut, which overlaid the pain of knowing that someone he had trusted had been so unworthy of the confidence placed in him.

Stella moved back into his embrace, "Come on, Don. We've found out now, and he'll be stopped. And it wasn't Tony. It wasn't Tony," she shook him a little, "And you knew it."

He wrapped his arms around her and held on tightly, letting his anger harden into resolve. He would take down this guy just like he did all the other ones, no matter who the man thought he was, no matter what it did to the community. Detective Flack had to believe that the truth was better than the secrets and lies: had to believe that, or he couldn't do his job.

"My mother is going to kill me," he muttered.

"You really are a good Catholic boy underneath it all, aren't you?" Stella put her hands on his face and pulled him close for a gentle kiss. "Your mother will forgive you, and save all her anger for him. She's a cop's wife. She knows."

Flack rested his forehead against hers for a moment, then kissed the tip of her nose. "Hey, I have Mouse in an interrogation room for Mac. We better get to him before he shakes himself apart."

"Okay, you go. You want me to call your captain about Father Antonelli?"

"Would you? He'll take it better from you," Flack said as he pushed open the door and automatically checked the corridor for people. Gerrard had been bumped up the ranks, and his new captain, Torres, was a big geek fan, having done some time as a crime scene investigator. It made things much easier for Flack, given his close working relationship with Team Taylor. Torres liked the science, and Stella was good at laying it out.

"Flack? What about Tony?"

Flack pulled out his phone and started to dial a familiar number. Then he hesitated. He glanced at Stella, "Could you?"

She started to nod, then stopped. Slowly, she shook her head, saying firmly, "You owe him. If anyone else tells him, you asking for his DNA is all he'll ever hear."

He shook his head in dismay rather than disagreement. "I think he'll hear it anyway. I'll call him. After I talk to Mouse."

Stella held her tongue.


	26. Chapter 26: Trading in Favours

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY. Poetry not otherwise referenced is original._

_A/N: Thanks as always to those who continue to read, and those who continue to review. I appreciate the interest and support._

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

* * *

_**Memory**_

_A room penetrated by thin beams of light_

_Sunset spearing through the window's blinds_

_Catching dancing dust motes, turning cobwebs_

_And the dried up remnants of a house's life_

_Into fantasy of swirling tiny sentient beings_

_Finding pleasure in ceaseless movement._

_The revelers cannot be trapped or stopped:_

_Opening the door will let in a wind,_

_Kill the dance and destroy the pattern_

_So laboriously uncreated in _

_The room of a thousand unconnected objects. _

_Here is a chair, discarded for its faded cushions _

_And broken springs pressing against the seat._

_Here a lamp, no longer lighting the way to any place in particular,_

_Shade faded and tattered, once brave and bright ribbons_

_Now hanging sadly, threads torn and stained._

_Here a trunk; a childhood fills it:_

_Discarded toys, treasures_

_A christening gown_

_A box of ash_

_Dust to dust_

_Ashes to ashes._

_From the earth we were made_

_And to the earth we will return, _

_Leaving only our memory behind._

_SMT2007_

* * *

**Chapter 26: Trading in Favours**

"So, Mouse, you're gonna tell us everything you know about Tag and Joe Jr." Flack sat down heavily in the chair across from the twitching addict, pushing a can of Coke at him. Mac stood in the corner, watching, face impassive.

Mouse seemed to be mesmerized by the light above Flack's head. His eyes flickered restlessly around the room, to Flack's face, to Mac's, then back to the light for a few minutes of staring before the flickering started again.

"Tag? I ain't seen Tag since we was kids, man. He went straight, got a job. Joe Jr., he's got three kids, and another his old lady don't know nothing about. Boys work for Gino. You remember, Flack? I told you Messer was in it." Flick, flick, stare.

"You told me lots of things, Mouse. Tell me again. About Gino. What's he into again?"

The thin grey face turned cunning, "Naw, I ain't going to talk about Gino. He don't like it when people talk about him. And he ain't a nice guy, Flack." Flick, flick, stare.

"That's okay, Mouse. Tell me about Tag and Joe Jr. What are they up to?" Flack could be amazingly patient when he was hunting.

"Tag's okay. He's not smart, you know? Like little brothers everywhere. Bit of a fuck-up," Mouse said confidingly. Flick, flick, stare.

"What's he fucked-up recently?"

"Nothing. Nothing. I ain't heard nothing." Flick, flick, stare.

"What about the warehouse job, Mouse? Ya hear anything about that?"

"Warehouse job? Naw. Nothing like that, Flack." Flick, flick, stare.

"Come on. You know. The snatch. The kid. Belongs to a councilwoman or something."

"Not a snatch. No. Just a … diversion. No, more like a distraction. Kid needed something else to think about. He was asking questions." Mouse shot a sudden, unexpectedly shrewd look at Flack, "Asking questions can get you killed, you ask the wrong ones."

"Or the wrong people?" Flack watched Mouse's hands; they were still, lying flat on the table.

"Yeah. Yeah. No harm, no foul. Kid gets taken outta the way couple days, business done – boom – home safe and sound, right?"

"Right," Flack said agreeably, praying that the tension he felt from the corner of the room wasn't going to explode all over his interrogation. "So kid gets let go, game over, right?"

"Long's he stays quiet, don't go poking his head in where it don't fit again." Flick, flick, stare.

"Where was his head that it shouldn'ta been?"

"You know. Yuppie spawning ground. Messer looking to move in there."

"Gino's looking to move into the university? What for?"

"Gino? Did I mention Gino? There are other Messers, ya' know, Flack. Some with a grudge. Some whose family is a little smaller than it use'ta be." Mouse was watching him carefully, a sly smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Flack shrugged, "So, tell me about Gino. What's he want with – what did you call them? The Yuppie spawn?"

Mouse rolled his eyes, miming disgust, "I tole ya' I'm not talking 'bout Gino. He's bad news all the way through. Messers ain't good people, Flack. Not like you and me. You ask your dad. He knows a little something about Messers. Knew enough to stop fishing in that pond anyway. Little too much of the Irish there, mebbe." Mouse's eyes were sly, but his hands had started a nervous tattoo on the table in front of him. He stared down at them as if they belonged to someone else, then picked up the pop can and took a long swallow.

Flack resisted the urge to shove the can into Mouse's over-large ear. "What about my father?"

"My dad knew your dad. My granddad knew yours too. I know things 'bout you and yours. Family stories. We're like brothers, Flack, you and me. Three generations." Flick, flick, stare.

"Yeah, we're family, Mauser."

There was no disguising the malice in the cold eyes now, "Serious, man. Three generations of pig on your side…"

Flack stood up in disgust, "Yeah, and three generations of squeal on yours."

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-

They shared a cab, Danny giving Lindsay's address so she wouldn't have to deal with the stairs at his place. She closed her eyes when they stepped into the front hall, and, with clenched hands and closed eyes, rode out the wave of lust that hit every time she stepped into the hall. She missed the worried look Danny shot her as she stopped moving for a moment.

"Peyton ordered groceries; are you hungry?" she said quietly as she closed and locked the door.

He shook his head, "Yeah, but too tired to cook. C'm here." He pulled her in his arms and rested his head on the top of hers. "I'm sorry."

"What for?"

"For not draggin' you outta there hours ago." He bent down as if to kiss her, but she stepped back with a smile.

"Me? You're the one too tired to eat, Messer. Go lie down a few minutes. I'm going to heat up some soup. Peyton left enough to feed an army." She pushed him towards the bedroom, but he grabbed her hand.

"Come with me. You need to get off your foot. Just a few minutes, then I promise we'll eat."

Lindsay didn't tell him she wasn't hungry; a blushing Adam had brought her food at the lab, a sandwich from her favourite deli and a very large double chocolate cookie. She just wanted Danny to lie down before he fell down.

"Okay. I'll be there in just a second."

He wandered down the hall as Lindsay went into the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of water, and stood at the window, staring out at the trees in the park across the street. Although the calendar said it was still winter, and certainly Montana had still been in its strong grip when they left only two days ago, the trees had a blush of green on their tips, a hint of spring to come. She drank automatically, searching the sky for a promise that warmth was returning to the world, but saw only the sullen gray sky threatening rain.

She grabbed a couple of acetaminophen for her headache and swallowed them, then grabbed another couple for Danny. She knew how he felt about painkillers, but perhaps his resistance would be low after today. "Be prepared," she muttered to herself.

By the time she had gone to the bathroom, changing out of work clothes into a sweatshirt and shorts she had left there the day before, and made it into the bedroom, Danny was sleeping peacefully, arms slung out across the bed, covers pushed nearly to the floor. He had managed to kick off his shoes, but otherwise he looked like he had sat down on the bed and simply fallen over and rolled.

She turned to go back into the living room, but then stopped. There could be no harm in lying down with him a moment or two. She was shaking with the cold exhaustion brings, and he was warm, and asleep.

She pulled the quilt up over him first, making sure he was covered. Then cautiously, she slid in beside him, fitting herself into the curve of his body, stilling when he murmured and draped an arm over her. She didn't move until his breath steadied; then she linked her hand in his, pulling it close between her breasts and closing her eyes.

She slept, and when the dreams came, she held tightly to his hand until she reached wakefulness, then slipped carefully out of bed to wander around her apartment.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-

"You sure about this, Detective Bonasera?" Captain Torres raised hopeful brown eyes to her, almost begging her to admit she was wrong, the science was wrong, and he was not going to have to go after yet another Catholic priest, and one with potentially 50 years worth of victims.

Stella shook her head firmly. "Sorry, Captain. There is no question about it; Father Antonelli was the father of Caitlin O'Leary's baby, and Jason killed her for saying it. He's morally responsible for that child's death, and who knows how many other tragedies."

"You know this has to go to the Task Force? You'll need to testify, give evidence to the Diocese …" Torres threw his hands up at the thought of the intricacy of the case they were going to have to work. With any luck, this was an isolated case, but Torres and Stella both knew in their hearts that it wouldn't be.

"Detective Flack is going to go talk to the other priests at the church. This hit him hard; Father Antonelli was his parish priest when he was growing up. The Father's semi-retired now, but this is going to destroy that community for a while."

Torres looked at her chidingly, "You know better than that, Detective. The church is bigger than this heartbreak." His hand unconsciously brushed the Knights of Columbus pin on his lapel. "But Flack," he shook his head, "I don't know whether he should be involved; he's already too close to this case."

"Let him talk to the priests, at least, Captain. He needs that. He needs to make amends." Stella's green eyes were pleading.

Torres thought a moment, then nodded shortly. "He can do the initial notification to the other priests that they are in the clear. Alert Special Victims: they'll make the Antonelli collar, work the case. Flack's going to have too much else to do."

Antonelli already, Stella noted. The priest had already become nothing more than a perp, losing the odour of sanctity every Catholic child had bred in its bones at the sight of a priest's black cassock and vestments.

She sent a quick text message to Flack, offering to join him at the church later that afternoon, and then went to the Trace lab to press Adam for her results on the next case she was working.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-

"Okay, Mouse. Let's back up." Flack had cooled his temper and worry and gone back into the interrogation room with Mouse. Mac was in the observation room beside it now; they had decided his presence wasn't helping, and maybe Mouse would be more forthcoming with Flack alone. If not, Mac would take his place and see "what he could shake out of the little rodent," as Flack had so eloquently put it.

"Whatever you say, Flack." Mouse was all helpful eagerness again; one might be forgiven for thinking the flash of spite had been an accident.

Flack didn't make that mistake.

"You told me that there was another Sassone brother. What do you know about him?" Flack tossed out.

"Sassones? Why you busting my chops about the Sassones? I thought you wanted info on the Taglias?" Mouse mimed confusion.

Flack sat back, bored. " 'Cause I'm administering a bullshit test, and I think you are going pass with flying, crap-brown colours, Mouse. Tell me about this Sassone brother."

"What's to tell? There's an older brother. He's a Fed. End of story."

"How come you know about him?"

"I told you, Flack. My granddad, my dad, me. We know stuff. We hear stuff." Mouse sat back, expansive in his knowledge.

"So, I go talk to Sonny, he tell me about this big brother he got?" Flack kept his tone and face bored. Let Mouse think this was a diversion from the Taglias; he may shake loose something new.

Mouse snorted with unamused laughter, "Sonny don't know nothing 'bout this one."

"You going to tell me you know something about the Sassone family that Sonny don't? Give me a break here, Mouse! Look at that! The shit-o-meter has reached full! You win the prize: one night's accommodation on the NYPD. Care to go for two nights in our finest cell?"

"Naw, naw, slow down here a minute, Flack. See, my granddad – I told you. He's been around a long time. Now his brain's collecting dandelion fluff, you know? So he's starting to spill. I go to the home, I sneak him some mother's milk, I collect." Mouse shrugged. "Family business, right?"

Flack sat back, examining Mouse like he was something picked up on the bottom of a shoe. Time to shake the little shit, he thought.

"Tag, Mouse."

"You're it?" Mouse flashed a feral grin.

Flack rolled his eyes, "Joe Jr. and Tag. Tell me what they wanted with the councilwoman's kid. Who'd they snatch him for?"

"Ask them."

"Asking you. You're the information clearing house here. Give me something, or I'll keep you overnight and you won't have a chance to snort that shit you're holding."

Back and forth they went, both seasoned players in this hardball game. Flack took him to the wall a couple of times, but Mouse, though scrawny, was tough. At the end of an hour, Mac, watching from the observation room, couldn't be sure that the score wasn't actually even.

Until Flack walked out with a cold, dark look in his eyes, but a spring in his step. Mac must have missed something.

"So? What now?" Mac greeted him, his frustration showing.

"We could bring in the Taglias; the DNA match on the duct tape is enough to hold them: Robert at least. That would make Messer take notice – that what we looking for here?"

Mac frowned, "Only if we can take him down. I wouldn't mind putting Gino out of business."

Flack shook his head, watching Mouse twitch through the one-way glass. "Wouldn't get near enough to Gino, Mac, you know that. He'd toss the Tag team to us in a heartbeat, and dance off rejoicing. We need more."

Mac nodded in agreement, "I'd like a little more on this Sassone brother, too. I'm not sure yet I even believe it, but I'm not quite willing to ignore it, either."

"So, we going after the boys, or we going after the man himself?" Flack was bouncing on his toes. He knew his preference, but the Garretts had a right to know what had happened to their son and why, and he knew Mac would have an opinion there too.

"You have a plan?"

"Starting to. I need to do some research first."

"Okay. I'll talk to the Garretts and Reid, see if I can keep them from pushing. You know about the Organized Crime Unit Gerrard is revamping?"

Flack shuffled his feet. "Uh, yeah."

Mac looked at him and a grin slowly moved over his face. "So, you tell Stella yet?"

Flack shook his head.

Mac rolled his eyes. "You want to be the one to tell her, you know."

Flack just nodded, but with a hint of a grin, "I brought her a present to sweeten the pot."

Mac quirked an eyebrow inquisitively.

"Give that girl fresh tomatoes in winter and she'll forgive you nearly anything!"


	27. Chapter 27: Going to the Source

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY. Poetry not otherwise referenced is original._

_A/N: As always, thanks to my reviewers, and especially to the 'wenches' who are keeping me sane! _

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

* * *

**_Family Portraits_**

_Birth is a happy accident._

_The odds of a single egg being reached _

_Penetrated_

_Fertilized,_

_By a specific sperm_

_Are astronomical._

_Babies are not planned;_

_Only timing can be predicted._

_Families are equally_

_Haphazard_

_Volatile_

_Random acts of procreation._

_Couples meet, marry,_

_Live together,_

_Sleep together,_

_Make love and fight and make children_

_Together_

_Make family _

_Together_

_In a perfect world_

_Together_

_But what is the ideal is not what is the norm _

_And the family given at birth may not hold for a lifetime._

_And a person may choose a new family,_

_Or be chosen by a new family,_

_But the chains linked around the ankles_

_The bindings around the wrists,_

_The noose around the neck_

_May compel a return, _

_May compel a renewal._

_Like a dog to its vomit_

_The child returns to the home._

* * *

**Chapter 27: Going to the Source**

Stella stood over the stove, stirring the sauce bubbling in the pan. Don had handed her the tomatoes with a tight grin, accepting her kiss with pleasure. Then he had told her that he had been put in charge of Gerrard's new Organized Crime Unit.

Stella shuddered. With new players joining the ranks of the various mobs in the city, a high profile job like that would place Flack on the promotion fast-track. He was already one of the youngest detectives to be in charge of his own team.

However, it would also make him a target, not only for the Italian 'families' who had long ago carved up New York City and to some extent the rest of the country as well, but also the infamous Westies, the Irish mob with ties throughout the continent, and newer, even more vicious mobs like the Russians, Asians, or the Columbian drug cartels, whose webs stretched even farther.

Crime was not only a growth industry in the States, it was one of its biggest imports.

And Flack was standing tall against it. "The tallest blade of grass is the first to be cut down by the lawnmower,' she muttered to herself, as she stabbed a particularly juicy tomato.

She sighed. After dropping that worrying little bomb on her, he had told her he had to go talk to Tony Reagan and then to his dad, and he would be a while. She had offered, naturally, to go with him. If she hadn't been watching him so closely, she might not have noticed the flare of alarm in his eyes, the slight paling of the skin.

But of course, she was watching him. More, she was observing him with all the knowledge, instinct, and training of an investigator. She couldn't help it. After missing danger signs Frankie Mala must have been putting out like solar flares, she had second-guessed her instincts to the point that she was paranoid. She watched all the time for clues to how people were feeling, thinking, reacting. Flack's reaction to her offer screamed uncertainty.

She stabbed another tomato.

He was the one who had pursued her. He had made the first move, given the first invitation. Sure, she had taken him up on it a little faster than he may have expected, but he certainly didn't seem to have been complaining.

The smell of the tomato sauce teased her senses, bringing back more than memories of great meals. She may never be able to make pasta without tasting him, smelling him, feeling his skin against hers again.

If those tomatoes had been people, Sid would have characterized it a frenzied stabbing.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-

"Mr. Garrett. May I come in? I need to speak to your wife and Reed, please."

Peter Garrett opened the door, welcoming Mac with a smile. "Of course you can, Mac. Please, call me Peter. Thank you again. I'm not sure we really said that in the hospital."

"No need. Is Reed recovering?" Mac took off his coat, which Peter hung up in the hall closest as he moved deeper into the house, calling for his wife and son as he went.

"Well, he's eating everything that's not tacked down, but that's pretty normal. You know teenage boys!"

Mac couldn't help but smile when Reed came down the stairs with an apple in one hand and a can of pop in the other. The young man dropped them on the hall table before reaching out a hand to Mac.

"I didn't really say thank you properly. I knew if I called you, you'd come."

Mac shook the offered hand, and was only a little surprised this time when Reed pulled him closer into a hug. He returned it easily, tightening his grip for just a second when he thought about what could have happened.

"Miranda, Mac Taylor's here." Peter announced as he ushered Mac into the pleasant living room. Mac took a quick inventory of the worn furniture, the signs of active family life, the general sense of people who were comfortable with each other, living well together, and sent a quick heart's message to Claire: her son had had a good life.

Peter sat down beside his wife, who smiled stiffly at Mac while gesturing to the chair opposite. Reed sprawled at their feet, finishing off the apple he had scooped off the table before following Mac and his dad.

"Mac," Miranda said, "Have you discovered anything about who took my son?'

Mac nodded his head, but before he could speak, she jumped in, "Have you arrested him? What explanation could he possibly have? I want him behind bars. I want to know what you are doing about this?"

Reed looked up at her with surprise, "Mom! Give him a minute. I'm okay. You need to relax." He took her hand.

Mac looked Miranda in the eyes. "We have evidence against a person who was involved: DNA on the duct tape which was used to secure Reed. It's enough for a warrant. We could pick the guy up and probably get him to trial on unlawful confinement."

Miranda burst out, "Unlawful confinement? Reed was kidnapped and held for two days! What the hell are you talking about?"

It was Peter's turn to try to calm her down, which he did with a hand on her arm and a gentle voice, "Miranda."

She twitched impatiently but subsided.

"Mrs. Garrett, I understand your frustration. But there was no ransom request, no evidence that Reed was hurt. They released him, or at least made it possible for us to find him. No ADA's going to do more than a deal on that." Mac turned to Reed. "You haven't remembered anything else? No one talked to you, told you what was going on?"

Reed shook his head, "I walked out of the Student Union building, and felt something go over my head. I blacked out, and woke up in the warehouse, hands and ankles bound and duct tape over my mouth. I guess I kept losing consciousness; all I can remember is being incredibly hungry and thirsty, peeing myself, more, then lying in it like a baby." He wrinkled his nose in shamed disgust, but was encouraged by Mac's casual acceptance of that reality of 48 hours confinement.

Reed felt his mother's hand tighten on his shoulder, and he bumped his head against her comfortingly. He frowned for a minute, trying to think back over a time that was pretty blank, seeking out the few flashes of consciousness. "I heard someone talking once, but it didn't make much sense."

Mac nodded encouragingly. "Do you remember anything he said?"

"Something about a mess? Things getting messy? That's all I can hear. Sorry, Mac."

Mac nodded. He hadn't expected much more. "Don't worry at it, Reed." He glanced at the boy's parents, then looked at him again. "You were drugged. They told you that in the hospital, didn't they?"

Reed nodded, lips tight.

"Common sedative, low risk of side effects. You were being kept out of the way for a reason, Reed. Two days is all they needed. What were you up to?"

Miranda leapt to her cub's defense, hackles bristling, "You dare! You dare to say that this was Reed's fault?" Both her men hushing her was not enough this time. "Get out. Get out of my house. I cannot believe that you would come in here and …"

"Mrs. Garrett," Mac broke in firmly, and for the first time, everyone in the room could hear the power that he controlled like a whip when necessary. "If you cannot be quiet, I will take Reed down to the station and continue this there."

She glared at him, but subsided.

"Reed, talk it out. Put things together here. What were you working on? Maybe for the paper?"

Reed stood up and moved away from his mother, though Mac noticed he gave her hand a squeeze before letting go.

"I was looking into the construction company doing work at the university. Four contracts out five had gone to one company: Messer and Sons …" his voice died off, and he frowned.

Mac waited patiently.

"Messer and Sons. You think that's what I heard: not messy or messed up. Messer."

Mac nodded, eyes on, not Reed, but Miranda. He watched as the colour drained from her face.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-

"Tell me about Maureen Messer, Dad." Flack's eyes were cool, interrogator's eyes, his father thought. And the voice, too – that fake intimacy coppers used on a suspect – trying to coax him into telling more than he had planned.

The Lieutenant hid a smile. Damn him, but it was a throwback to the past to have his little boy playing cops with him again. They used to do it all the time: 'walk a beat' after dinner to give Dora a chance to finish up the dinner dishes and tidy the kitchen, give the babies their baths. The Kim's Game he'd adapted from his own days as a Boy Scout: "Look at the street, Donnie. Now close your eyes and tell me what you see. Now open them and tell me what's changed."

Don Flack Sr. looked at his boy. Not a boy anymore: a detective in the NYPD, working with some of the best in the city. Shit, the best in the world. You didn't have to get the science to appreciate the nerd squad: they'd tied up some guys who'd slip through a briar patch like Brer Rabbit, you give them half a second. Now handpicked for a new Organized Crime Unit, a new attempt to clean up this raddled old hooker of a city.

The coughing bout caught him by surprise, and he choked on his own sputum, his thin hand shaking as he brought it up to cover his mouth, handkerchief at the ready to catch whatever gunk he spewed up this time. He hoped there was no blood this time; he didn't want Donnie to see that.

"Here, Dad. Have a sip of water," Flack passed the cup with the long hospital straw attached to the lid, like a kid's cup, Don Sr. always thought: those sippy cups his grandkids carried around instead of bottles like his own brood had. Couldn't see much difference really. All his kids had come out fine. Just fine.

"Better?" Flack's eyes remained cool on the surface, but deep at the core, his father could see the pain burning. Damn it! Why now? Why did this have to come up now? Another month, even a few weeks, and the whole thing could have died with him.

"Maureen Messer? What brought her to mind, Donnie?" Maybe he could prevaricate; he used to be a champion liar. Of course, when he did it on the job, it was called being a good cop. When he did it at home, it was called being a good husband.

"I got me a situation, here, L. T.," his son said, deliberately falling into old patterns, old games, old ways of connecting. "I have too many things pointing towards too few people. I need to clear the board a bit. Thought you could help me do that."

Don Sr. nodded. Even in the hospice, some people didn't forget their old friends. He had known about Donnie's move to the OCU before the kid did. He'd been hearing rumours about the Messer boy and that pretty little thing from the Wild West. He'd even heard rumours that his own kid was hooking up with Detective Bonasera, who he'd always thought was Mac Taylor's sidepiece. One look at Donnie told him he wouldn't find out anything about that the kid didn't want him to know.

That country girl Messer was involved with – he'd seen her pictures in the paper when the Montana case went bad. Messer's picture too, white as a sheet, but stubborn as shit at the funeral. In a box hidden under his hospice bed, he had copies of every picture published of his own son, even the most recent ones calling him "Super Cop" with the little boy in his arms. It was the closest he would ever come to seeing the next generation of Flack boys.

He laid his head back on the sterile white pillow, exhausted by the fit, lungs stretching painfully for their next inhalation. "Set me up, kid."

Briefly, Flack described some of the info Mouse had dropped. He could feel sticky spider strands clinging to the people around him. Something was up: the trouble at the church he'd grown up in, Reed's kidnapping, Danny being involved with Lindsay, whose brother was a Fed. Normally, he wouldn't have thought twice – just coincidences. Today, he was thinking. Like he told Mac, researching. And no one knew more about the strange and convoluted connections in a New York neighbourhood than Don Flack Sr.

He looked at his father, so painfully thin it seemed that his bones were overlaid on the outside of his skin. The cigarettes that had been so much a fixture in his hand had finally done their job; his sister Marie had phoned him last week to make arrangements for the funeral they all knew was around the corner. He'd agreed to talk to Father Tony at St Augustine's. It wasn't like Tony had been surprised when they met this afternoon. A little cool, at first, but Flack understood that.

As he talked, his father's eyes were closed, but he was nodding recognition of names and connections; the body may be halfway home to hell, but the mind hadn't given up yet. "So Tony Messer has finally scored the big time, that what you think?" he murmured. "I'd be surprised, Donnie. Strictly small potatoes, that one. No guts, no matter how you sliced him up. His kid was just like him: always wanted to run with the big boys, but shit himself the first time he tried."

"Maureen? Dad? Tell me about her."

"Oh, she was a looker, Donnie. So beautiful. Eyes a man could drown in, legs that went forever. And her mouth – ah, she could suck a man down to the gates of hell and hold him there a hundred years and he'd never blink." Don Sr.'s voice was so thready Flack had to bend forward to catch it.

At the next sound out of his father's mouth, though, Flack sat back and rubbed his hands over his face. The heavy breathing of morphine-induced sleep filled the room.


	28. Chapter 28:Turning Over the Past

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY. Poetry not otherwise referenced is original._

_A/N: As always, thanks to my reviewers, and to those who are following along and, I hope, enjoying the journey._

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

* * *

_**Betrayal**_

_You promised peace:_

_A comfort in times of confusion,_

_But when the skirmish ended _

_You were nowhere to be found._

_You promised trust:_

_A place to come when all seemed lost,_

_But when that battle was over_

_You were gone to search for the next._

_You promised fidelity:_

_Allegiance to our future,_

_But when the enemy was at the gate,_

_When the battering ram was at the door,_

_When I was besieged on all sides _

_By an adversary I could not even see,_

_I could not see you either._

_SMT2007_

* * *

Chapter 28: Turning over the Past

"_Come here, you little bastard. What the fuck are you doing in there? Danny? Didn't I tell you to stay out of there?"_

"_She's sick, Mama … Mommy, I mean. Nonna's sick and she needs a doctor."_

"_She'll be fine. We can't afford a doctor, Danny. Not unless your uncle comes through on his promises. Dammit, the old woman is his mother too. I get stuck here cleaning up her shit and puke while Angela gets fur coats and diamond earrings."_

"_Mommy, she's thirsty. Can I make her tea? Please, Mommy, I'll be careful."_

"_Oh, Danny. Just leave her alone to sleep. Sleep is the best thing for her. When your father comes home, I'll send him for the doctor, okay? Go outside. Go play ball with the Mancuso kid, okay?"_

"_Mommy, Nonna needs …"_

"_Danny! I said go outside! I'll take care of your Nonna."_

Danny woke up with a start, sure he could hear his mother's voice in the room. He rolled over slowly, reaching for Lindsay, but she was no longer beside him. Not that he was surprised by that; she rarely stayed in one place for long.

He rubbed his hands over his face hard, and sighing, got up and went to the bathroom, running the water cold and splashing it over his face after washing his hands. The edges of the dream stayed with him – no, not a dream. A memory, really. His mother had not been cut out for the life she led. A child could understand that, he thought grimly, and still not forgive it.

He wandered out into the living room where Lindsay was watching television, a frown of concentration showing the headache she was still fighting. She didn't turn her head when he passed her, so he went straight into the kitchen without speaking, and looked around with a sigh. He could see the food Peyton had brought; the cupboards were decently stocked, he noticed. So why had she not made herself something to eat? Judging by the light coming in from the window, he had been sleeping at least three hours.

With a shrug, he began to throw together a quick pasta sauce and salad, wincing a little when sore muscles pulled, but otherwise glad to be doing something. Like being back at the lab, working around the kitchen felt oddly right, as if he was recovering a part of himself Ross Adams had tried to leave behind on the forest floor.

Lindsay came around the corner, her eyes wide in horror. "What do you think you are doing?"

"Making us some dinner," he said absently, concentrating on cutting the tomatoes into even pieces.

"Danny, you should be lying down, or sitting down at least," she stepped in his way, forcing him to look at her, but he just grinned and handed her a knife and a head of lettuce.

"Salad, Monroe. You're in charge."

Lindsay glared at him, but he looked fine; his nap had obviously done him some good. Reluctantly, she took what he offered and went to the other side of the counter to start chopping at the inoffensive vegetables. It really wasn't his fault that she had been unable to stay asleep long enough to feel half-human, was it?

They ate quietly, Danny carefully saying nothing when Lindsay finished less than half of the food he had put on her plate. When he got up to wash the dishes, though, Lindsay firmly pushed him in the direction of the couch, and handed him the remote control. He didn't argue, just searched for a game of anything to watch. He picked up his cellphone and considered phoning Flack, but changed his mind when he checked his email and saw that Flack was set to 'Away'. Idly, Danny scrolled through the messages that had accumulated since he had gone to Montana – it seemed like months ago.

Mostly junk mail and stuff he'd already dealt with just by showing up alive at the lab that morning. He deleted as he went, mentally compiling a list of people he really should get in touch with now that he was back in the city.

Lindsay sat down beside him just as he hit the second to last message in his inbox.

"Danny? What is it?" She looked up in surprise as he threw his phone across the room into a chair opposite him, narrowly missing the open window.

He glanced over at her white face in mute apology. Dammit, he had to keep the lid on his temper; no way was she ready to deal with that.

"Sorry, Linds. I was just – surprised, is all."

"That looked like a little more than surprise. That looked like pure pissed off Messer," she said dryly, easing her sore shoulder by holding her elbow in the opposite hand and trying to find a comfortable way to sit.

"My cousin," Danny answered dully. "Wants to see me."

Lindsay lifted an eyebrow, "And you don't like your cousin?"

"She's okay." He sighed, and went on uncertainly, "Her father, on the other hand …"

"Gino Messer," she nodded in understanding.

He shot her a fulminating look, his pious vow not to let her see his temper disappearing in an instant, "Thought you said you didn't listen to those rumours about me being connected?"

She met his eyes, "I said I had heard. I'm not an idiot, Danny. I do know the difference between having a connected family and being connected yourself. So, Gino's daughter wants to meet you? Are you going?"

He pushed himself off the couch tiredly. "Don't know. Don't want to."

"But?"

"She's my cousin." He shrugged as if that was all he needed to say, and picked up his phone from the chair.

And, Lindsay supposed, in his world, that was all he needed to say.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-

Flack stood up and walked over to the window, with its cheerful view over the park, although for all his father cared, it could have had a view of a stinking alley. In fact, Flack thought with a wry twist of his mouth, the old bastard would probably prefer it. The wretched and damaged had always been more real to Don Flack Sr. than his tidy little house in Queens, with its well-behaved children and clean rooms. He had perched in that house like a welcome guest, only really coming to life out on the streets.

Flack had not realized how true that was until he had joined his father out there, and had seen him slip on a well-worn and comfortable skin: the tough dedicated cop who wasn't afraid to step over a few invisible lines to get to the truth, to seek justice. So different from the slightly detached but doting father he had grown up with, the one who always seemed to be the tiniest bit afraid around his own children.

"Donnie?" It was his father's voice again; no, it was the voice of this scarecrow-like figure presently occupying the same space as his father, shrunken, diminished, a grayscale version of the man who had stridden through his life like a superhero.

"Dad? Maureen Messer? What was she to you?" No time for a more diplomatic way to ask that - his father's limited contact with consciousness may give him only a few minutes to get the information he needed.

"Two weeks. Less: ten days," Don Sr.'s voice was strong again; he seemed to know what his son needed to hear. "It was a kind of madness."

He closed his eyes again, took a drink of water when he felt the straw at his lips. "You were not quite three, maybe, still in diapers, anyway. Your mother – she was having a bad time of it, Donnie – lost a couple babies before we'd done more than figure out when they were due. Then your little sister was born – Angelica, she called her. Her little angel." The old man's throat closed up, with a choking life-long sorrow this time, not the tar and crap of a million cigarettes smoked on cold street corners. "She lived only a day, Donnie. So perfect. I had to leave, to go on shift right after she was born. She came into the world with the dawn, was gone with the sunset. Little angel."

"You were at work."

It was a statement, not an accusation, but Don Sr. flinched as if his son had thrown a punch. "It's different now. We were barely allowed to go in and hand out cigars. No parental leave in our day. Mothers gave birth: fathers went to work. That's how it still was, especially for us on the force. She was perfect, Donnie, perfect. I had no reason not to go."

His eyes flew open, searched frantically for his son, standing tall in the light of the window. "I didn't mean it. It was just – your mother is a good woman, Donnie. Maybe a saint: I ain't qualified to say. But after Angelica died, she went cold."

He shrugged impatiently at Flack's instinctive grimace, "I don't mean sexually. Well, I do, but that wasn't it. Shit, I didn't expect that. She'd been through hell and back again. But she went completely cold. You're too young to remember, but I had to take you to stay with your Gran for some time. Dora – she couldn't even get out of bed. One day I came home from shift and she was sleeping. You were in standing up in your crib: filthy, soiled, no food all day. She hadn't woken up when you cried, when you called for her."

He stopped talking, breathing heavily, and Flack offered him the straw again. He pulled the cold water into his mouth as eagerly as he pulled the air into his lungs.

"They call it post-partum depression now, I guess. Then, we just thought she was crazy. They made me sign the papers, Donnie." The blue eyes that had been so like his son's, but were now fogged and faded with drugs and pain, looked up into the face of his judge and jury. "They made me sign my own wife into the rubber room unit at the hospital. If I didn't do it, the doctors would, and it would be harder to get her back out. When I left her there, she turned away. I didn't think she would ever forgive me."

He stopped, catching his breath, reliving that bitterest of moments. "I certainly never forgave myself."

Flack said nothing. There was nothing to say.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-

Reed looked at Mac with some excitement, feeling he'd personally cracked the case. It was something to do with the construction company. That's why he had been snatched. He should have been able to put it together before; it wasn't really that hard to work out. But the drugs they had kept forcing him to inhale, combined with no food or water for nearly two days, had fuddled him.

He grinned a little to himself. So far in his journalistic career, he had been beaten up once and kidnapped once for a story and he'd only been doing this for a few months. Soon he'd be ready for the big time!

He looked at his mother, and realized she was staring at Mac, white and wide-eyed. He wanted to tell her he was okay, that it was all over, but suddenly he realized the tension coming off her in waves was no longer directed at him. Whatever she was afraid of, he was no longer at the centre of.

Miranda stood up restlessly and began to pace the floor. It was a small room, and she was angry, shaking with anger, Reed noticed in some surprise, so it did not take much time for her to get from one side of the room to the other. Unlike Peter and himself, dressed in jeans and sweatshirts, she was dressed for a public appearance, wearing slim black trousers and a loose, stylish jacket he recognized as the same one she had worn the day before when her press conference had become a confrontation.

Reed was not naïve: his mother was ambitious and he understood his role was to look good and stay quiet most of the time. The news of his kidnapping had hit the streets early: Detective Bonasera had warned him to keep his head down when he came out of the warehouse, because reporter Jared Cross was trolling the gutters and had heard the alert go out on the scanners. Bonasera had managed to stave the reporter off at the scene, but he had been there front and centre, microphone and nose twitching eagerly, at the stairs of City Hall when Miranda had made her statement to the press, dryly commending the police who had found her son and the EMS who had seen to his health. Reed's job had been to stand beside and slightly behind her, looking suitably rescued and healthy and grateful.

Everything had gone smoothly until Cross had called out, "Mrs. Garrett, is it not true that your son, Reed, is actually the natural son of Detective Mac Taylor of the NYPD, the same detective who came to his rescue?"

'Natural': a much nicer term than 'bastard', Reed reflected bitterly.

Reed winced as he remembered his mother's nails digging into his arm as he stepped forward to set the record straight. Miranda had smiled sweetly at Cross and said, "Jared, the networks will never let you play on their team until you learn to check your facts better."

That sound bite had been gleefully picked up and broadcast by rival stations, but it had done nothing to warm the frigid atmosphere between Miranda and Mac.

Mac was watching Miranda pace with cool calculation, Reed saw. He had a bad feeling about this.

"Mrs. Garrett, we know who took Reed. We think we know why. We've had information that organized crime may have connections to someone, perhaps several someones, on City Council. What can you tell me about this situation?"

Reed turned on Mac with alarm, "Mac, no! Not her: you know it wasn't her!"

"I'm not talking to you at the moment, Reed," Mac said calmly.

"I'm talking to you! Damn it, Mac! I told you – I heard them. Do you think if it had been her …" he didn't finish the sentence, but Miranda threw him a startled and, he saw with horror, guilty look.

"You told me what you heard because you were afraid it might be. But I'm not relying on what you heard, Reed. Information has been received. Mrs. Garrett?" The voice was contained, polite, and ice.

Miranda walked across the room again, and then stopped in front of the window. She turned and leaned against the sill in an uncharacteristic posture of defeat.

"Detective, I can only tell you that I have nothing to do with organized crime. Other than that statement, I can't say anything at the present time."

Reed closed his eyes: Miranda Garrett, attorney-at-law, politician, was not his favourite version of his mother. "Mom, what are you involved in?"

Miranda looked at him, biting her lip uncertainly for a moment. "Reed, all I can tell you at the moment is that you have to trust me. I know what I'm doing. Can you do that? Can you trust me?"

He looked into her eyes, but had to drop his. The problem was that he couldn't trust her. He wanted to. But he hadn't told Mac everything about the conversation he had overheard at Chelsea the week before, when he had run like a scared rabbit to the safest place he could think of. He hadn't told him about the older guy, the one giving the orders to the younger one, who had said, "Don't worry about Garrett. We'll take care of that little problem when the time comes."

But which Garrett was the little problem? Him? Or Miranda?


	29. Chapter 29: Burning Bridges

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY. Poetry not otherwise referenced is original._

_A/N: Sorry for the wait – too many irons in the fire this week! Not so long for the next, I promise._

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

* * *

_Vampyre_

_Drawn to heat, to beat of heart,_

_Cold to the core, blue flame in snow,_

_Seeking out warm breath of the living,_

_Red blood pumping through blue veins._

_The eternal flame of desire wrapped in ice,_

_Fueled by anger so cold it burns_

_Through the body from the bones_

_In which it is seated._

_Heart frozen between one beat and the next_

_Held trapped in a prison of stone:_

_A prison bitterly chill._

_In the body which bore a child of flame,_

_A child of frost,_

_A child of redemption,_

_Lies a heart of cold iron_

_On which a weapon is forged._

_SMT2007_

* * *

**Chapter 29: Burning Bridges**

"What's the good word today, Sid?" Hawkes said, snapping on his gloves as he came into the morgue where Sid was examining the latest body brought in off the street.

"According to the Word of the Day, it is sinuous: characterized by many curves or turns; winding. I once knew a girl who could suck her own toes from behind her head."

Hawkes shuddered and changed the subject. "So, DB, Sid? You got anything?"

"He was found in an alley near Central Park around noon today. Dead perhaps two hours prior to being dumped. No ID; in fact, no clothes."

"So someone dumped a naked dead guy in an alley in a crowded part of town and no one saw a thing?"

"According to the patrolmen who found him."

"Sounds like no one was encouraged to see anything," Hawkes commented as he examined the body. "And what killed him?"

Sid shrugged, looking through his glasses contemplatively. "No signs of trauma; no obvious contusions or wounds. He looks like he was in good health: perhaps mid-30s. Nothing is jumping out at me: it looks like his heart just stopped."

"Well, let's see what John Doe can tell us about himself, shall we?"

Forty minutes later the two doctors were staring at the dead body in confusion.

"Well, looking at the heart, he died of ventricular fibrillation – something caused his heart to 'stutter' and then stop." Sid unhooked his glasses and looked at Hawkes thoughtfully. "No signs of disease – young, healthy, in good shape. Ate a large breakfast, stripped naked, went out into the crowded streets and dropped dead?"

Hawkes rolled his eyes, "I'm guessing no. The body was clearly moved; there is post-mortem bruising on the back and buttocks showing he was on his back …"

"That's how the patrolman found him," Sid interjected.

"But there is also older hypostatic lividity on his chest and face. He died lying on his front," Hawkes said. "Help me turn him over, Sid."

They examined the body again carefully, but it wasn't until Sid brushed back the hair that would normally have fallen long onto the collar that both doctors gave a sigh of curiosity satisfied.

"There it is. A burn mark – two small marks like …"

"A cattle prod." Hawkes finished the thought. "He was electrocuted. Was there a burn mark on his hands or feet?"

Sid checked, and found the exit burn mark between the toes on the left foot. "It disrupted his heart beat long enough to shut down his oxygen supply and kill him. It wouldn't take much time."

Hawkes stood up and stretched out his back, "Well, now we know how he died, it's my turn to find out who he was. Maybe that will get us a when, a where …"

"And a why," Sid finished off.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY

Mac sat at his desk, checking through the results of tests Danny, Lindsay, and Adam had managed to get through. He hated to admit it, but he was relieved to have Messer and Monroe back in the lab – they worked together well and always seemed to kick Adam up a notch too. Mac sighed; there was something up with Adam – he was sulky and even more distracted than usual. He'd have to put talking to Adam on his ever-growing list of things he had to do even if he was crap at it.

At least three files had been completed; three cases closed. The Central Park murder was going to get much, much bigger, if the DNA results he was looking at were anything to go by, but at least it would be on someone else's desk, someone else's headache: the Child Abuse and Exploitation Task Force would be working it.

He looked again at Reed's file; technically he was off the clock, and if he chose to put this case ahead of others, no one could complain. This was another case he was going to have to hand over, in this case to the Organized Crime Unit; at least he trusted Don Flack to give it his full and careful attention. He wouldn't jump to the easiest and most publicity-generating conclusion.

Reed had been kidnapped by the Taglia brothers, who worked for Gino Messer, who owed allegiance to the Lucchese family; that much was clear from the evidence. He had been held for two days, presumably because someone needed him out of the way for those two days. But why? There was nothing big in the wind, no new or significant operation going down that either he or Flack had been able to get any information about. Mouse had said it was a distraction or a diversion, but surely a first-year journalism student hadn't been able to get close enough to anything that serious.

Miranda Garrett was the reason behind the kidnapping: he could feel it in his bones. Trouble was, Mac Taylor, Detective First Grade, NYPD, was all about the evidence. When his detectives came to him mumbling about 'a feeling' or 'just knowing' something, he blew them up good. The one 'feeling' he hated the most was 'instinct'. Instinct led animals at risk to eat their own babies to protect them. "Instinct is why humans invented computers," he muttered.

Still, he had to admit that sometimes the gut got it right; listening to it had saved him a time or two in the past. Good for throwing oneself out of the way of a bomb, perhaps. No good for solving a complex problem with a multitude of variables.

Mac rubbed his forehead; he could feel the headache building. This is when he needed his team to work things out, to kick around ideas. There was no future in worrying at it all on his own. Danny and Lindsay had gone for the day, not before it was time; Stella had left hours ago clutching a brown paper bag full, Mac thought with a grin, of fresh tomatoes; Peyton was in the morgue with three new dead bodies to examine. Who did that leave?

"Mac? Got a minute?" Hawkes came around the door and was a little surprised at the warm smile he received from his boss.

"Come on in, Hawkes. I need some help too, so we can swap."

Hawkes moved into the room and sat down, composed as always. Mac had often thought that he would have made a near-perfect sniper with the right training; he had the gift of silent stillness. Mac leaned back in his chair and gestured. "So, what have you got?"

"I have a dead body, electrocuted execution-style." Hawkes pointed two fingers at the base of his own skull. "They used a cattle-prod, not a Taser. Easier to override safety settings to deliver a fatal load. Silent, painful, and deadly. DB was stripped naked and dumped in an alley just off Central Park. No one saw a thing."

Mac held out his hand for the file, "A new style Mafia hit? More efficient in some ways than a gun, certainly quieter. We got an ID?"

Hawkes handed over the file a little reluctantly. "Yeah, confirmed by a fingerprint check through AFIS. Mac, it was Robert Taglia."

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-

It was several minutes before Don Sr. could get enough breath to continue. It took a little longer to gather the courage it was going to take to continue.

"I was on the Organized Crime unit, working my way up. We were watching Tony Messer; he never got very far, but he was a weathercock, you know? Whatever way the wind was blowing, Messer would be facing the other way, cold air blowing straight up his ass. He never could get anything right."

"Except for Danny." It was the first thing Flack had said for several minutes, and Don Sr. flicked an eyebrow inquisitively at him before nodding and sighing.

"Yeah, well, if they didn't get that one wrong, it wasn't for lack of trying, believe me."

Flack sat down in the chair beside his dad again. Finally.

"I was out in a van, alone, on stake-out. It must have been three in the morning. Who knows where Tony was. She came sashaying out with coffee for me. I was so embarrassed I didn't know where to look. She asked if I really thought she hadn't known we were there from the minute we'd set up. She'd grown up in the life too, you know?"

Flack shook his head. Danny had said very little about his mother, except to swear on her obviously empty grave and to make a comment about her still dressing him.

"Oh yeah. She was a Riley; her dad was a lieutenant in the Westies. Shot in a drug raid years ago: left him in a wheelchair. Mother's family was from somewhere in Italy. Grew up in Hell's Kitchen, ran with the Irish mob until she married Tony when she was only 18. Had Louie within the year, Danny two, three years later." He took a deep breath. "They'd have been – what – five and eight? So she was twenty-five, twenty-six, something like that."

He took another few minutes to just breathe. Flack sat silently, waiting, calculating. Twenty-eight. His father had been twenty-eight. Four years younger than Flack was now.

"She used to come out to me, then. At first, she'd bring me coffee, give me some info, tell me what Tony was up to. She hated him. Hated him worse'n poison. She told me once if a girl was going to be sold, she should at least take some of the profits. One night, she offered me more."

Don Sr. opened his eyes. He may have to take this lying down, or at least propped up on pillows, but he would take this like a man. Take the scorn and hatred his son would pour his way like a man.

"I took her up on it. Your ma, she'd been gone for nearly six weeks by then. I went to see her every day. She wouldn't even look at me. I'd go see you and you'd cry and ask for her. You wouldn't come near me, just cry for your Mama." The old man went to wipe his hands over his face, and looked at them in surprise when he felt them come away wet. "Ah, it was a bad time, Donnie."

He looked his son in the face again, searching for the hatred he expected, almost needed to see. "I loved her. Your mother. It killed me to see her like that. Like a stone statue. Like one of those angels in the cemetery – cold and lifeless and beautiful. But Maureen – she was like a flame. It was a kind of madness."

Flack looked at his father with compassion. He'd cheated on his sick wife, with a woman who had two children. But he had been lonely too, taken comfort where he could find it. Given who his father was, he could understand it. And could he honestly say he would do any better? Hell, the most he had committed to in his life was a potted plant presently dying on his fire escape.

But damn it. How was he going to face Danny?

"I saw her three, maybe four times before I got pulled off duty. The desk captain never said, but I know he knew. I thought I was going to lose my badge along with everything else. Instead, they partnered me up with McQueen, and your mother finally responded to the drugs they were trying on her, and you came home. We all came back home."

Flack nodded. His little sister Marie had been born when he was four years old, then Catriona and Francesca in short order after that. He'd grown up, the oldest in that noisy, bustling family, and never understood the fear and anxiety that permeated the foundations of the home.

He didn't say anything. His father wouldn't have appreciated it, wouldn't have known what to do with it. But he reached out and held the old man's hand, just for a minute, squeezing hard.

And his father closed his eyes and accepted absolution.

It was several minutes later that Don Sr. opened his eyes, his breathing still rattling in his chest as if the bones were trembling in a wind only he could feel. His voice was wispy and thin, but he had one more thing to say, one more piece of information to pass on to the cops. To pass on to his son.

"I tell you, though, Donnie. She was a hard piece. One day, the last one before I was pulled to other duty, I was on dayshift. She never looked for me on days – I was strictly nightly entertainment." Don Sr.'s voice still held a snap of bitterness. "I watched her walk down the street with those two boys. And what I saw chilled me to the bone."

He stared into his son's eyes, cop's eyes, and knew this would be remembered when everything else was allowed to be filed under 'Ancient History'. "She had Louie by the hand; she loved that boy like nothing I've seen. Danny, he was only five, trailing along behind. She called him a couple of times," he could hear the voice now, high, harsh, impatient, "But he was entranced with something. Maybe a bug he'd found on the sidewalk. Something small anyway. He was squatting down watching something, and she came up behind him."

He swallowed. He could see that moment again, feel the shock. "You gotta understand, Donnie. Everyone smacked, hit, their kids. Some even used a belt or a switch. It wasn't called child abuse then, it was called being a parent. But this. I've never seen anyone hit a child like this." He shuddered and shook his head.

"She beat him? In public?" Flack's voice was stone-cold now.

His dad shook his head again, "It was worse than that. Any parent can lose it, you know? But she was ice – just lined him up like a golf ball and swung. He went flying, lay on the ground for a good two minutes before he moved again. Didn't say a word, just got up and followed her. I was nearly out of my van before I realized I was going to blow my cover." He blew out once, hard. "I didn't see her again for years."


	30. Chapter 30: Keeping a Secret

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY. Poetry not otherwise referenced is original._

_A/N:__Grazie to Silvara71, who has generously corrected the Italian – I feel so much better knowing people may be able to understand it now!_

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

* * *

_**Kill You Fast**_

_Cruel nip of frost on tender buds –_

_Snow covered spring blossom –_

_Crushed._

_Killing wind that wounds_

_Severed trees old before time –_

_Channel through living flesh._

_Shock of lightning cuts gaps in the air._

_**Kill You Slow**_

_Heat baking moisture out of eyeballs too sore to blink –_

_Arid soil too tired to sustain the life clinging to the edges –_

_Draining vital energy to pale exhaustion –_

_Mock fertility of deep brown loam leeched to poverty._

_Barren soil producing weak twisted fruits –_

_The struggle to survive to thrive to stay alive –_

_Beaten down by time crushing like boulders._

* * *

**Chapter 30: Keeping a Secret**

Danny slid into the booth, accepting the cup of coffee automatically placed on the table in front of him, and dumping two containers of cream in before sampling it and grimacing quickly. He sat back, leaning into the corner of the booth he had picked for its view of both the front and the back door, one leg up on the bench, and settled down for a long wait. Even when she was born, Nikki hadn't been on time, making her mother Angela wait nearly a week before making her grand entrance, screaming like an opera star, according to family legend.

Danny glanced round the room; it was years since he had been in Mama Antonia's diner. They all used to hang out here: the boys from the neighbourhood sitting in the very booth he was in now – the girls across the room so they could walk by the boys on their way to the bathroom to flirt and giggle and come back out of the facilities on a wave of _Charlie_ and bubblegum lip gloss. Just a whiff of those scents in combination was still enough to give him an embarrassingly teenage hard-on.

Over in the corner was a jukebox, still filled with the old standards: Sinatra, Vic Damone, Frankie Laine. They'd managed to sneak a little modern culture onto the list: The Police, Queen, Foreigner. They'd even talked Mama Antonia (yes, there was a real Mama Antonia) into allowing Madonna on for about a week. Then they made the mistake of putting on "Papa, Don't Preach" while Mama was actually in the restaurant, and had all suffered the humiliation of being soundly beaten around the head in disgust.

Danny could see them all now, running out the door laughing, fending off a four foot nothing Italian grandmother dressed head to toe in black, brandishing a wooden spoon, and screaming out, _"Uscite fuori dal mio ristorante, piccoli malvagi ragazzi... Dio perdoni i vostri cattivi modi e vi riporti nella Sua grazia... malefici ragazzi...Diavoli..."_ The boys had boiled out onto the street: perhaps a dozen or so, followed by the mocking calls of the girls lined up against the windows.

In a perfect New York moment, they should have gone down the street singing and dancing to a Bernstein beat, Danny thought cynically. Instead, what had started as a retreat swiftly turned into a riot. When the first window had smashed, he had been shocked: only 14 years old, still choking his way through that first pack of smokes, hanging with the big boys for the first time. Within minutes, the street was a mess of broken glass and smashed merchandise – the corner store where the boys had been refused alcohol and cigarettes earlier that night was the first target.

Danny had followed along for a block or so, but the cops had shown up quickly – they policed the area pretty well even back then. He had stepped back into the shadows of an alley when he saw the ring-leaders get grabbed first – the beat cops all knew who the top dogs were – and had turned to go with a sigh of relief when he had walked straight into a blue uniform. He had looked, it seemed, a long way up, before meeting a pair of bright blue eyes.

"And where do you think you are off to, my son?"

"I'm not your son, copper," he had spit out, full of bravado.

"No, he's too smart to get caught up in this kind of stupid shit." The cop had pushed back his hat with a weary sigh. "Besides, he's at home sleeping, where you and your little buddies should be."

"Fuck off," Danny had muttered under his breath. Glancing over his shoulder, he had seen his brother Louie and best friend Tony Mancuso being helped into the back seat of a cruiser. His mother had blamed him for that, just as he had known she would, when the cop had brought him home, thrusting him through the door at his mother, who stood tall and cold, closing the door when he opened his mouth to say something.

Danny was startled out of his reverie when a flurry of red jacket and long dark hair fell into the seat across from him, a stream of words cascading between shiny pink lips and white teeth.

"Oh my God, Danny, whatever made you pick this place of all things – talk about the ghost of Christmases past, and Hallowe'ens and nearly every high school dance we ever went to – do you think Mama is still alive? – she couldn't possibly be, could she? – she must have been about a hundred when we were kids – we could have met up town – I never expected to see you out on the Island tonight – it's a long way to come – I'm sorry about this but I needed to talk to you and I just had to do it now before Papa pulls the plug – I mean he hasn't said he's going to but I just know he is – I can feel it…"

Danny sat back and waited patiently until the flood began to slow, and then said quietly with a grin, "And hello to you too, Nikki."

She grinned at him, "Are you eating? Mama's pie is still the best around, although how an Italian can be so good at American apple pie is beyond me."

She nodded her appreciation for the hot coffee that the bored teenager presently waiting for a more exciting life to happen to her placed in front of her.

Danny shook his head, "Can't stay long. What does your dad want, Nikki?"

"Hey copper, yard it back, 'kay? This doesn't have anything to do with Gino Messer; you know I don't have anything to do with the business…"

"Except live off it," Danny muttered.

A flash of hurt ran over Nikki's face before she spat out, "Actually, if you could see anything this family does over that pious 'I'm-too-good-for-you-now' cop attitude of yours, you'd know I've been supporting myself for three years now, working two jobs. But that's fine; I'd hate to offend your NYPD sensibilities by forcing you to associate with a member of your low-life family." She started to slide out of the booth, her eyes stormy, but Danny grabbed her arm.

"Don't. Nikki, I'm sorry," he muttered, thoroughly ashamed of himself. He ran a hand over his head and down the back of his neck, where the headache presently blinding him radiated from. "It's been a bad coupla' weeks. What do you want?"

Cautiously, Nikki slid back in to the seat, and took a sip of the coffee, grimacing and adding cream just as Danny had earlier. "You'd think they could wash the coffee pot out once a decade," she said under her breath.

"Then all that good flavour would be gone," Danny flashed a grin and a hint of the cocky kid she had grown up with before the shutters came down again. "Tell me what you need, Nik."

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-

"Stella?"

"Linds? What on earth is wrong?" Stella clutched the phone anxiously; she could hear Lindsay crying on the other end.

"He's gone, Stel. And he didn't take his cell phone and I don't know where he is and he's been gone for _hours_," Lindsay was gasping as the words tumbled out.

"Okay, breathe, Lindsay. Breathe. Don't make me come over there and slap you – I might enjoy it a little too much right about now," Stella said through her teeth. Damn Danny, anyway. And Don. In fact, to be safe, just damn all men to hell and away tonight. "Lindsay, he's fine. He knows this city inside and out. Where did he go?"

"He went to meet his cousin, Nikki. Stella, she's Gino Messer's daughter. What if it's some kind of setup? What if he's in trouble somewhere? He left ages ago and he hasn't called…" Lindsay broke into sobs again.

Stella took a sharp breath, and prepared for meatball surgery. "Now look, Lindsay, there is no reason to think that he isn't just fine. He's been walking these streets since before you were born. And why would his uncle want to hurt him? Danny's not involved in anything that could worry Gino Messer. And if he wanted to get to Danny, he wouldn't need to use Nikki in the first place. You are really over-reacting here."

Lindsay gulped down a sob, and Stella could feel her reaching for control. "I'm sorry, Stel. You're right, I know. It's just … I called his phone, you know? And it rang here in my living room – he didn't take it. He always has his phone."

Stella sighed. "So he was at your place? Maybe he just forgot his phone. Lindsay, stop driving yourself insane. Have you called his place? Maybe he went home."

"He's not there, either. Could he have gone to his parents', do you think? They live out on Staten Island, don't they?"

Stella said slowly, "He went to Staten Island to meet Nikki?" A flash of Don's face flickered across her memory, _"You have to stay in the car, though, okay? I don't want them to see you."_

"To Mama – Something's, a diner they used to hang out at. Why?" Lindsay's voice sharpened. "What? Why shouldn't he go to Staten Island?"

"No reason, Lindsay. Breathe. Look, do you want me to come over and wait with you?" Stella tried to keep her voice patient.

She was heartened to hear a watery giggle on the other end of the line, "Not if it means you're going to slap me, no!"

Stella laughed, "That's better! Now look, I'll come over if you really think there is something wrong."

"No. I'm sure you're right. I just panicked. I'm over it now."

Stella took in a deep breath. Now or never. "No," she said bluntly. "You're not. And I've decided what you are going to do about it."

Stella talked fast, washing over all of Lindsay's objections, pushing her until finally Lindsay agreed, rather grudgingly, to meet Stella in the morning.

"We'll talk about it then," Lindsay said, "But I still don't see what good is going to come of it. Stel, could you wait a minute? There's someone at the door."

Stella waited impatiently for a moment, staring at her own door, waiting for a knock on it, some sign that she had not been left behind. Then she heard Lindsay's voice, hushed and a little hurried, "Stella? Yeah, it's Danny. He's okay. You were right. I'm sorry if I worried you."

"That's okay, kiddo. Just don't mess me up tomorrow, okay? You promised. I'll meet you at 10:00." Stella made her voice as stern as possible.

"Yeah. Yeah, I promise. Ten tomorrow," Lindsay said, distracted and still worried sounding. "I promise."

Stella put down her phone when she heard the buzzing on the other end. She wandered to her window and pulled back the curtain, looking out over the dark, busy streets of New York. With a snap, she pulled them shut. He hadn't said he would come by, hadn't told her to wait for him. The pasta sauce she had made was still simmering on the stove, making her feel edgy and needy. Damn. She didn't know if she could cope with a low-carb diet, but she was sure she wouldn't be making pasta again any time soon, either.

She curled up on the couch, grabbed the remote, and began to cruise through the stations, humming Springsteen's "57 Channels and Nothing on" under her breath. Only now it was more like 150 channels. How could there still be nothing worth watching?

And how was it that after years of living on her own, luxuriating in her own space, she was now unable to settle, to find something to do?

Restlessly, she turned off the television and wandered over to the window again. This time she jumped back. There was someone standing in the shadows, watching her.

It took her a moment to calm herself, force her heartbeat to slow down. By the time she moved to the window again, he was gone. She moved swiftly to the door, throwing it open as he came close.

His hair and the shoulders of his trenchcoat were damp from the drizzling rain that had gone on all day. He smelled of misery and smoke and whiskey, as if he had stopped at a bar on his way to her. His eyes were fogged and dulled. He stood, swaying slightly, on the threshold, not stepping forward through the door.

"Don?"

Her voice seemed to break the spell, and he fell into her open arms, wrapping himself around her so tightly she couldn't breathe.

"He's dying, Stella. He's dying, and even then, I still had to be a cop. Even now, I still have to be a cop."

She could barely hear the words, but feeling his body shake in her embrace was enough. She held him close for a moment, until the tension in him began to loosen, then swiftly pulled him all the way into the apartment, closing and locking the door behind him. She led him into the bedroom, forgoing the dinner she had planned hours ago. She left the lights off, pulling open a curtain a few inches so the streetlights were the only illumination. She took off his coat, hanging it in the bathroom, and came back with a towel to find he had not moved.

Slowly, she helped him remove his damp clothing, drying his hair and face with the towel. He stood, passive, until she gently pushed him down on the bed to take off his shoes and socks.

"I'm so tired, Stella. I don't know what to do next. My mom – Danny. How do I tell them? Or do I just keep it, hold onto it?"

"Shh, it's alright, Don. We'll work it all out in the morning." She could barely understand the words he mumbled through rain-cold lips. She pulled the covers back and tucked him into her bed, quickly pulling off the sweatshirt and jeans she had been wearing, and crawling in beside him, curled against him to warm him.

And when he turned to her in wretched need, when he buried himself in her warmth, when he shuddered his way to climax, and fell into unconsciousness, she could only follow him, guide him, and finally hold him safe against the terrors of the night he had brought with him.

When she woke in the morning, he was gone.


	31. Chapter 31: 'Fessing Up

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY. Poetry not otherwise referenced is original._

_A/N: I'm sorry updates are a little slow – we are moving into summer and internet access will be a bit sporadic. I'll try not to disappear as long as you promise to keep reading!_

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

* * *

_The Secret of Love_

_The secrets that hold you in their icy grip_

_Have reached out and touched my heart_

_Adding a tiny hesitation to each beat._

"_Does he? Doesn't she? Can I? Will I?"_

_Every question asked into the vacuum echoes back_

_Roars back into the silence of that space between_

_Blood in and blood out._

_You smile and say, "Of course I love you."_

_I hear "Thump – I – thump – love – thump – you"_

_And wonder what word was covered in the heartbeat._

_SMT2007 _

* * *

**Chapter 31: 'Fessing Up**

"I'm sorry. I've never really done this before. I'm not quite sure what to do."

"That's okay. Why don't you just take your time? Get comfortable. We'll just chat a little while before we start."

"Stella Bonasera told me to come. She said you were good with this stuff. But she didn't explain to me what I was supposed to do."

"Ah well, Stella is a little more familiar with the ritual. You don't need to worry about any of that."

"I'm not Catholic, you see. The rest of them all are. Well, I don't think Mac is actually. I'm not sure what he is. Maybe he's nothing. Oh, sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry for. We all search for God's light. We don't need to take the same path."

"And Peyton, I guess. I'm pretty sure she's Episcopalian. She's from England."

"Ah, yes. Catholic Lite."

"Sorry?"

"A little joke. About four hundred years old."

"Oh. Umm, my family was … is … Presbyterian. We sort of stopped going when I was sixteen. But all the rest of them, Stella of course, and Flack …"

"I went to school with Don Flack. So Stella and Don are Catholic…?"

"Yes. And Danny of course."

"Ah yes. That would be Detective Messer?"

"Yes." Lindsay looked up, into the dark eyes of the priest, who looked impossibly young to be speaking for God. Not to mention good-looking in the same sort of cheeky way Don Flack was. "Do you know Danny?"

"We have many mutual acquaintances, yes." The priest's eyes cooled slightly, although his face remained calm and friendly. He put out a hand to shake hers. "Father Anthony Reagan. But as you're a friend of Stella and Don's, you can call me Father Tony."

She looked at the offered hand, and slowly placed hers in it. "Lindsay Monroe. Aren't you supposed to not know who I am if I'm confessing? Isn't it, like … well … anonymous?"

Father Tony laughed in honest amusement, "Well, that would be a bit difficult, seeing as this is the church I grew up in. I know pretty much everyone here, although some of them still count the money in the collection box after it passes me! Now don't worry about any of that. Anything you tell me will be in confidence; you needn't think twice about that. But you aren't really here to confess a sin, are you?"

Lindsay took a deep breath and looked around the church she had reluctantly shown up in, pushed and prodded by Stella, who was waiting for her in a coffee shop down the block. "You need to talk to someone, and you won't talk to the department shrink. So I have another suggestion for you." In typical Stella style, "no" had not been an option. She had sat up most of the previous night, curled in a corner of the couch, thinking about what Stella had said, while Danny slept alone in her bed.

"Yes, I am. Do we need to go into the little cubicle?" Her eyes had gone dark.

"No," Father Tony said slowly. "There's no one out here right now. Why don't you just tell me? Then we can decide what feels right."

Lindsay closed her eyes. She could not say the words, even to this young, understanding priest, if anyone was watching her. "Last month, in Montana, I killed a man: shot him in the chest. I am responsible for the death of another man, a police officer. I am responsible for the near fatal shooting of another police officer. I failed to protect the lives of four young people. And no one will listen to me. They keep saying it's not my fault. But it is. And I am afraid I will do it again."

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY

"One, two, three … what do you mean she won't sleep?"

"I mean she don't sleep. We go to bed together; we get out of bed together. But she isn't there if I wake up in the middle of the night."

"Eight, nine, ten. Okay, that's enough of that. I mean it, man. I'm not spotting any more. You need to slow down a little. Rehab isn't supposed to run you into the ground. And how often do you wake up in the middle of the night?"

"This isn't about me. I'm doing okay. Just need to build up so that Mac will let me out of the damn lab."

"You keep pushing like this, the only part of the lab you'll be in is the morgue, never mind getting back in the field! You took a bullet and had major surgery – what? Like a week ago? That doesn't just go away."

"Yeah, I remember how patient you were with your recovery."

"Look, I got something to slow down for now. So do you. Be smart for once in your life. Do what the rehab guys tell you."

"I can't. I can't stand seeing her like this."

"You being able to bench press my weight ain't going to change how she feels, you know."

"I just … if every time she looked at me, she didn't see the gunshot wound …"

"Uh-huh. You think she'd get over it then?"

"I don't know. I know she won't get over it when that's all she sees."

"I thought you two were good. She came back from Montana with you –

you guys spend nights at each other's places."

"Yeah, 'cause what I was looking for was a nurse," muttered the slighter man, face lined with the marks of habitual pain.

"Shit, Danny." The other man looked on helplessly as Danny moved to the treadmill.

"S'okay, man. I just have to get back on my feet. Prove that whatever else Adams did, he didn't beat us."

Flack keyed in his own running pattern and fell into step on a nearby treadmill. "You hear from Monroe recently?"

"John? Yeah, he's coming out next week. We've got tickets to the playoff game, even if it is Buffalo. What the hell is that about?"

"Linds excited to see him?"

"Yeah, I guess. She doesn't talk much about it." Or anything else.

Flack caught the unspoken comment with a nod of his head, watching Danny push a little too hard on the treadmill. He had shoved his father's confession to the back of his mind: too much to deal with – too many people to hurt. It had waited this long; surely it could wait a little longer. But every time he looked at Danny's drawn and determined face, he heard his father's voice in his head: "_lined him up like a golf ball … just got up and followed her." _

He shook his head. "Let's finish up here. Stella's waiting for us. I texted her after you called this morning." His face was a little flushed as he leaned over to pick up his towel.

"Wonder how that went. Linds isn't really into the whole church thing."

"If anyone could get her to do something she doesn't want to do, it would be Tony. He's got the Irish on his tongue, that's for sure."

"Weird."

"What?"

"That you grew up with a guy who became a priest."

"_You_ think it's weird? Try sharing my memories!"

"So, I haven't met him yet. He coming for breakfast?"

"Don't know. You could show up at church sometimes, meet him that way."

"On his turf? I don't think so. Too much power in his corner."

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY

"So, we've lost one of our prime suspects in the Garrett kidnapping. Did the patrol pick up Joe Jr. last night?" Mac rubbed a hand across his eyes. He figured he must have gone home the night before, if only because he had woken up in his own bed that morning.

"Yeah, they got him. Found him out on the street, pissed to the gills and swearing a blue streak. He was packing – a Browning 9mm. He clammed up when they asked him who he was after, though." Detective Angell looked curiously at Taylor. It wasn't usual to see him looking less than a hundred percent.

"He didn't make any statement when he identified Robert Taglia's body?"

"He wasn't there for the ID; Joseph Sr. and," Angell checked her notebook, "Sophia Taglia were."

Hawkes knocked on the door, and stuck his head around the corner, "Hey, Mac? Taglias IDed Robert. Hey, Angell."

Mac waved him in, "And Joe Jr. is in custody."

Angell answered Hawkes' inquisitive look, "Drunk and disorderly, carrying a concealed. Being kept at the station for now – passed out."

"Get someone in to offer him protective custody, Angell. We need to know what he does. Dammit, why is Flack off today?" Mac muttered, then apologized when he saw the flicker of hurt flash over the young detective's face, "Jen, I'm sorry. It's just that we've been working this case from a different angle."

Angell nodded stiffly. It was no secret that Team Taylor was a tight group, hard to break into. She thought she had made some headway, but obviously there were currents here she wasn't privy to. She knew the rumours about the Garrett kidnapping. "I've texted him. I'll update him as soon as he checks in."

Mac rubbed a hand over his face wearily again, "Don't worry about it. He'll show up when he can. He deserves a day off, too."

Angell nodded again. "Still, he's primary on this. I'll get someone to talk to Joe Jr. when he sobers up if Flack hasn't shown up by then. Anything shakes loose on this, I'll let you know." She left, quiet and contained as always.

Mac spun his chair and stared out the window a moment. Damn, he hated screwing up with people. It was too hard to fix.

"She's fine, Mac," Hawkes' quiet voice eased through the room. "She knows the score."

Mac snorted, "Yeah, well if she didn't, I just rubbed her nose in it good and hard, didn't I?" He swung back around to face the desk, to face the job, again.

Hawkes shrugged, "She's a big girl. She wants to play with the big dogs, she can't piss like a puppy."

This time the snort that came from Mac was laughter, "I can't believe you said that."

Hawkes sat back in his chair, "She's tough, Mac, and she's good. She's also young, and she knows that just showing up is no guarantee of trust. She'll deal."

Mac put his head back on the chair and closed his eyes. "Yeah. But I don't have to be a jerk about it." He shook his head and opened his eyes again. "So, how are things going in the department? We keeping our heads above water?"

"We're still a little short handed with both Lindsay and Danny on light duty. We're trying our best, but even with Jillian Penn still on our shift, we're struggling to keep up."

Mac sighed, "I know. Danny's pushing to get back into the field. He texted me again before I even got here."

"We could use him, but is he ready?"

"Not in any way. It hasn't even been two weeks since he left the hospital in Montana, since he was shot. I have our departmental doctor's report; he estimates another month. The original injury is healing, but he lost a lot of blood. His recovery is going slower than they would like."

"What about Lindsay? Her injuries were pretty severe, too; losing an argument with a truck takes a toll."

"With her, it's more that she's just not ready to take on field work. What with the confrontation with Adams, having to shoot him, and having to face Forbes during his appeal hearings, she just isn't tough enough at the moment. And then there's McKim's death too."

"She talked to the shrink?"

With a shrug, Mac neatly dismissed the department shrink.

"Stella has a plan. If that doesn't work out, I don't know what to do next."

Hawkes nodded, "Talked to Stel yet?"

"She'll call in."

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY

"Bonasera."

"Hi Stella. Heard anything from her yet?"

"No, she's still in the church with Father Tony."

"Is that a good sign?"

"Not a bad one. I'm taking anything that isn't her flying out of the church screaming as a good sign."

"Is Lindsay a church-goer at all, do you know?"

"I don't think so. Danny never mentioned anything, and she was a little worried about going into a Catholic church, so I don't know. Anyway, Father Tony has a degree in psychology and is a licensed therapist. It's not like I threw her to the Pope."

"Ah well, we Protestants tend to be a bit suspicious of the motives of Rome, you know! I can't blame Lindsay for feeling a trifle nervous."

"I know, and I only pushed her …"

"Because you're her friend and it was the right thing to do. It's all right, Stella; I'm sure it will be. She hasn't talked to you about Montana, has she?"

"Only that night, and only really about Danny. She blames herself for him being shot, you know."

"Yes, I gathered that."

"I guess that, along with everything else, she was pretty shaken by John McKim dying during the appeal hearing. He never regained consciousness."

"Hmm, so she wasn't able to figure out why he told her he loved her, or what his role in the case was."

"Right. And you know Lindsay, Peyton. She feels responsible for the whole thing. If she had recognized Ross Adams in the first place …"

"But the sheriff covered it up. And she was only 16."

"I guess that taking responsibility is one of the reasons she's a good investigator. But she has to get over this. I just don't know how hard to push."

"It's okay, Stella. You're good at reading people. You won't push too hard."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence! Hey, Peyton, Flack and Danny are just coming. Can I call you later?"

"I'm on shift in a few minutes. I'll probably see you at the station later."

"Not if I catch a lucky shift and don't have to worry about coming down to the morgue! Talk to you later."

"Let me know if there is anything I can do, Stella."

"Right."

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-

"You scared the crap out of her last night, you know."

"Yeah, I know. I didn't mean to. I just didn't think, you know? By the time I left the diner it was getting late; transport back into the city was slow."

"You couldn't have called?"

"Sorry, Mom, I left my phone at her place. Man, am I off my game. I never leave my phone anywhere."

"There's this wonderful invention, Danny. It's called a pay phone. You use this little piece of metal, stick it in the slot, and make a call."

"Yeah, I know. I told her I was sorry."

"Stella, leave it alone." A hand on her arm.

A shrug to dislodge it. "How are you doing, Danny? You and Lindsay okay?"

"I don't know, Stel. She won't even talk to me. Just smiles and says she's working it out. But I know she's not."

"She's not sleeping, he says." Arms folded defensively on the table, hunching over.

"What do you mean, not sleeping?"

"It started with nightmares in Montana, just waking her up at night. Well, we were both having them, so no big deal, you know. We'd cope and go back to sleep. But now, I don't know when she's sleeping at all. When we stay together, she comes to bed with me. She's there in bed with me in the morning. But when I wake up in the night, she's not there."

"And how often are you waking up at night?"

"Jeez, why are you two so interested in my sleeping habits? This is about Lindsay. I don't know what to do; she won't talk to me at all."

"That's why I forced her to do this, Danny. She needs to talk to someone, and Father Tony is good at this. Don't worry. She's tough, and so are you. You're going to get through this and we are going make sure of it."

"Hush. Here she comes."

"Hi, Don. Hi, Stella."

Danny got up to kiss Lindsay on the cheek and pull out a chair for her, and Don reached for Stella's hand beneath the table and squeezed it. When she looked at him, one eyebrow raised, he mouthed, "I'm sorry."

She shook her head with a smile that did not quite reach her eyes. "No worries."

"I have to go in, Stel; Mac and Angell both texted me. But I need to talk to you," it was said in a hurried undertone. "After work? Dinner?'

Stella thought back to her ruined pasta sauce, which she had tossed out that morning, along with the saucepan it had simmered dry in.

"You're buying."


	32. Chapter 32: Anticipation

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY. Poetry not otherwise referenced is original._

_A/N: I promised to try to keep updating this as I travel around the province, _

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_Tell Me You Love Me_

_When you tell me how you feel_

_Tell me in words I can understand:_

_The words I learned at my mother's knee,_

_The words that speak of home and love._

_The words that trip so sweetly off your tongue –_

_Like the music of the spheres, the lyrics of the Gods –_

_Thrill and enchant me, a spell woven around my heart,_

_But they might as well be mere notes on the page._

_Without the passion in your voice,_

_They mean no more to me than birdsong._

_Tell me in the words of the home I left for you_

_What you feel for me._

_SMT2007_

**Chapter 32: Anticipation**

To: Aisha Blanco

From: Adam Ross

Subject: Tonight

Hey – look, are you still up for this tonight? Only the crap is flying at work and I might not be able to get off – we're still short-handed and now something else has come up with my boss and every time he comes into the lab he looks ready to snap in two and I don't know if I can get away on time and I don't want to make you wait for me 'cuz it could be a really long wait if something else gets thrown at me today

Anyway, I want to be there don't get me wrong but if I don't show up it's not 'cuz I didn't want to or anything it'll be okay if Danny and Lindsay come in today but they're really not supposed to be working and so if things get busy I don't know

Okay so I'll be there at 7pm. Maybe 7:30.

Just phone me

Adam

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-

"Mac, Danny processed the evidence in the Harlem case before he left. I've got the results."

"Do they help?"

"Not much. No CODIS hits for the saliva found on the mouthpiece, but the fingerprints got a hit in AFIS."

"That's good, isn't it?"

"Not really. Matched a John Collins – sheet for some pretty minor stuff back in the 1940s."

"The '40s? How old is the guy now? And how did his prints get in the system? I didn't realize they'd input data from so long ago."

"His file and a bunch of others were included as part of a training programme about ten years ago. Guess the perps were low profile enough it didn't matter if the info was accurate. Anyway, the guy would be in his 80s now. Except for one thing."

"Which is?"

"He's dead. Died in 1975."

"So how did his fingerprints get on a trumpet with someone else's saliva on it?"

"No idea."

"This case is really going nowhere. Put it on the back burner until we find something new. Anything else come back yet?"

"The cellphone found with Reed Garrett?" Hawkes maintained the fiction the lab had tacitly agreed on, that the Garrett case was just another case, and nothing personal, but they all knew differently. Touch one member of Team Taylor, touch them all. But strike at the head of the team, prepare for war.

And war had just been declared: civil war.

"Yeah?"

"It came back to a hit in AFIS. Been a while, but the print matched old records."

"So? Who was it?"

"Antony Messer. Danny's father."

Mac said nothing, but Peyton, who was coming to his office with an offer of coffee, ran in when she saw his face, stopping dead when he raised his hand to cover his eyes.

Shit. His boys. Now two of his boys.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-

"Stop watching me, Montana." He didn't look up from the newspaper he was reading.

"What do you mean? I'm not watching you. Ego much?" She looked down defensively.

"I'm fine, Lindsay. I don't need an aspirin, I don't need a glass of water, I don't need to go lie down." His voice was consciously patient.

"What I need is for you to stop looking at me like I'm going to fall apart any second," he thought but did not say.

"I wasn't … okay, I was. You left the hospital too early." She crossed her arms over her chest, trying to hide the wince of pain as her shoulder ached.

"Me? You know, Linds, it's not even two weeks since you lost an argument with a truck. Don't! Don't you dare roll your eyes at me." He had promised himself he would not do this, that he would let Stella and her pet priest handle it. But she was closing off more and more. He couldn't breathe with the pain of her shutting him out. At least if he blew things sky-high, he might have a chance at catching something as it flew by.

"You limp if you're on your feet for more than 10 minutes. Every time you move, you hold your breath until you're still again. You eat less than Nicole Ritchie and you've lost at least five more pounds, and it's not like you had it to lose. You don't sleep more than an hour at a time, tops." He thrust his hands through his hair, leaving it standing up on his head, his blue eyes snapping with frustration. His voice was on a steady rise as he let go.

"You're back at work, even though you shouldn't be anywhere near the job, especially for another five hours today, and you won't talk to me. You won't even let me touch you. Christ, it's like rooming with my sister."

Her eyes flashed now. He wanted to fight, did he? This was easy; she was a woman; she was born for this fight. Her voice was cutting as she said, "So, this is about sex, is it, Messer? You haven't your rocks off since Montana? You feeling deprived?"

Her heart shriveled in her chest as the bitter words flowed into the room, hearing her own voice with a frozen sense of disbelief.

He stood and looked at her with dignity. "No," he answered her quietly. "This is not about sex. This is about love. I've told you I love you, Lindsay Monroe. I don't know what else to say. I love you. But this …" he indicated the distance between them, more emotional than physical, "is not what I want. And I can't believe it's what you want either. Let me know when you figure out what that is."

He made it to the door before he heard her soft voice, sobbing his name. Just that and nothing more, but it stopped him faster than a bullet.

They met in the middle of the room, hands reaching, bodies straining to get closer. She was suddenly, sharply reminded of his searching for her after she had set off the flash bomb in the Ghedi case. She could almost smell the smoke. She pressed her face against his shoulder, for the first time in days not worrying about how hard she held him, about the still healing wound in his side.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Danny." She repeated it over and over until his mouth covered hers, taking her apology and her breath in one move.

This time, when the heat flash came, she welcomed it, asked for it, even willed it to happen. His hands tightened on her hips convulsively as her mouth opened under his, her body moved against his. She could feel his instant response to her warmth and shook against him.

He broke the kiss, framing her face with his hands, and resting his forehead against hers. "Lindsay, I didn't mean … if you're not ready …"

She put her hand over his mouth. "I thought you wanted me?"

His eyes glazed over a little as she pressed her body against his, and he growled against her hand. "I love you," he whispered before taking her into waters so deep she knew she would drown if she didn't hold on to him, her hands tight on his biceps.

His hand wrapped around her neck and fisted tight in her hair, holding her in place as he ravaged her mouth. Even when her hand accidentally brushed against his side, he barely felt the twitching of his damaged body, so involved was he with drinking in her sweetness. When he caught her moan in his mouth, he knew he was done for.

Lindsay put her hands on his shoulders, pushing him gently until he stopped kissing her. At the flash of dismay in his eyes, she laughed, "I think we should move this to somewhere more comfortable, Danny."

He took a deep breath and nodded. He wanted to sweep her off her feet and carry her off to the bedroom, but that was not going to happen anytime soon. He had to content himself with putting an arm around her and leading her down the hall. If he couldn't make it heartstoppingly passionate, he'd have to settle for heartbreakingly romantic instead.

He opened the curtains, so the late afternoon sun streamed into the room, warming it with a golden light. When he turned around, Lindsay was not in the room, but the bathroom door was closed, so he didn't panic. Instead, he looked around the room and found a few necessities.

When Lindsay came out of the bathroom, wearing only a t-shirt that stopped just above her thighs, music was playing on her sound system, the bedclothes were turned down, there was a candle burning in one corner of the room, and Danny, stripped down to boxers, was sitting on her bed. His eyes burned as he watched her cross the floor towards him.

She tried, she really did, but she could not help but glance at the purple and yellow bruising under his ribcage, the stitched and puckered wound on both his abdomen and back. He held out his hand and she sat beside him, but instead of ignoring what he plainly would prefer she not notice, she put a gentle hand on his side, just barely skimming her fingers over the visible reminder of how far he was prepared to go to protect her. Gently, she pushed him back against the pillows, and pressed her lips to the injury. He bit his lip as she moved her mouth across his belly, and up his chest. When her face was close to his, he pulled her body tight against him and covered her mouth with his again.

Music filled the room, soft and slow, dancing amongst the sunbeams that played in the corners, slanting across the end of the bed so their feet were bathed in light. They lay in each other's arms, tasting, exploring: kisses ranging from lingering sweetness to passionate demand, then gentling to something more playful.

"_Sei tutto quello di cui ho bisogno, tutto ciò che desidero__,"_ Danny whispered in her ear, as he slid a hand under the t-shirt covering her. His hand was warm on her skin, sending shivers over her as he stroked her back. "_Ho bisogno del tuo calore, del tuo fuoco... Mi sento davvero vivo solo quando sono dentro di te__."_ The stream of muttered Italian sent her pulse racing. She didn't have to understand the words to feel the heat of his passion, hear his voice break on the words _desidero_ and _fuoco_. She moaned as her body went limp in response to his hand cupping her breast, thumb gently teasing her nipple erect until his mouth captured it through the thin fabric of her t-shirt, his tongue quickly wetting the fabric, coaxing a quiver out of her.

She squirmed out of the t-shirt, needing to feel his skin against hers, needing the heat and the blood pulsing through her body. She arched up against him, drawing a groan from him as she pushed his boxers off his lean hips and down.

With hands and teeth and lips he explored her body, keeping her on the knife-edge of passion, neither letting her come down nor go over. She couldn't breathe, couldn't think, wanted to scream but couldn't expand her lungs enough. She chanced a look at his face, and saw it tight with desire and longing, but more, saw the tell-tale signs of pain around the white lips and half-closed eyes, fogged with equal amounts of need and agony.

She thought for a moment of flipping him onto his back, but realized that wouldn't help; her shoulder made her no more up to athletics than he was. She bit her lip as his hand brushed her hair and she saw the beginning of a despondent apology on his lips. Be damned to that.

She wound one arm around his neck and brought him close for a soul-deep kiss, deliberately pulling them away from the frenzy for a moment. Then she let go and turned her back on him, lying on her side, spooned against him.

"Montana. I'm so sorry," he started on an anguished breath, his hand tracing a line down her neck and arm to wrap his fingers in hers.

She brought his hand to her mouth for a kiss, looked over her shoulder mischievously, and said again huskily, "I thought you wanted me, Messer." His eyes lit up and with only a little maneuvering, she felt him slip inside her, felt his hands on her hips. She cried out as he began thrusting, picking up speed until she felt his body go rigid as he buried himself in her. She was poised on the edge, the tension building again until she could feel every individual cell in her body start to quake. When his teeth found the nape of her neck with a growl, she felt herself finally go over with a shudder, spasming around him again and again.

They lay in each other's arms, completely wrung out. It seemed a long time before he moved, kissing her under the ear and whispering words of love and promises she almost believed.

When she realized he was speaking English, tears blurred her eyes. And once the tears began, she wasn't sure they would ever stop.


	33. Chapter 33: Puncture Wounds

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY. Poetry not otherwise referenced is original._

_A/N: I can't believe I forgot to thank Silvara71 for her help again with the Italian in the last chapter – she turned my clunky translation into poetry. Grazie, bella! _

_And thanks as always to the reviewers for suggestions and complaints. _

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

* * *

_**Filling the Jar**_

_Take a glass jar, so you can see what happens._

_Fill it with pebbles the size of quarters._

_Gray granite with white scars_

_Running through the centre:_

_Wishing stones._

_Make sure to fill the jar – _

_Give it a good shake and fill it again._

_A life of work is a full one._

_Now add smaller stones, the size of a fingertip_

_Worn smooth and bluish gray,_

_Or black as lava baked in the centre of the earth_

_Shake the jar carefully, and add more._

_Notice how the small stones slip between _

_The rounded edges of the pebbles._

_Family and friends cushion life._

_Is the jar full yet?_

_It looks full; shaking it leaves no more room _

_For pebbles or gravel._

_It is as full as it can be._

_Until the sand is poured in – _

_Grains of mineral, shards of rock –_

_Ground against itself and the land by the unceasing sea._

_Soft gray, glints of mica gold, flakes of rock_

_From times gone past._

_The weight, the world, the universe_

_Which fills the spaces too small to see,_

_Too small to recognize,_

_Until suddenly emptiness no longer exists_

_And the jar is full._

_You fill the empty spaces in my life._

* * *

**Chapter 33: Puncture Wounds**

Hawkes sighed as he put the final file in the pile of "completed". It wasn't the cases that were getting him down; it was the paperwork. Not that he didn't think the paperwork was important, which is why he did it so carefully. It was just a drag: somehow more exhausting than dumpster-diving, which he had done twice that week.

He missed Lindsay.

He rubbed his hands over his eyes, pushing the thick glasses he wore through long shifts up to his forehead, and sitting back in his chair, rolled his shoulders to ease some of the strain. He had worked overtime again but at least when he came back into work in a few hours, he would be starting with a clean desk.

His eyes startled open when Adam paged him. With a sigh, Hawkes pushed himself wearily out of his chair, and made his way down to the lab.

"Hey, Adam, what have you got?"

"Okay, so you know the trumpet?"

Hawkes had to think back a bit – he'd shelved that investigation on Mac's recommendation.

"Yes."

"Well, it's not an ordinary trumpet. I was trying to look it up – see if we could get any clues to who had owned it? So guess what? That trumpet, man – it has history."

Hawkes raised his eyebrows. Adam was bubbling with excitement. Not unusual for Adam, Hawkes conceded, although always entertaining to watch. "What kind of history, Adam?" he asked patiently.

"Like crazy New York City history, man. Look," Adam pulled up a facsimile of a newspaper article on the computer screen. Beside a headline screaming 'Angel of Death's Trumpet?' there was a picture of the trumpet presently on the table.

"Correction," thought Hawkes, "A trumpet." Aloud, he asked, "How do you know this is the same trumpet?"

Adam triumphantly zoomed in on the grainy picture, then used the computer to enhance the picture and fill in the detail. There was a clear mark on the trumpet's bell, a crease which had split then seemed to have been repaired with a line of what looked like a darker metal than the soft gold the rest of trumpet was plated in.

"See?" Adam said, excitedly.

"Yes, I see."

"So look at the trumpet – it has a crease and a crack at the same place, and it has been filled with a tin and copper mixture…"

"Pewter. Right." Hawkes lifted the trumpet in gloved hands, examining it closely. "Okay, same trumpet. How does this help us?"

Adam rolled his eyes, "Well, read the article. This trumpet was played through the 1920s and 1930s by Gabriel Gordon. He was connected to the Mob."

"Naturally," said Hawkes under his breath, as he skimmed the article.

Adam looked at him a little reproachfully. He was still young enough, thought Hawkes, and new enough to New York City to find the Mob sort of thrilling. Give him a few more years, and he would see only the vicious waste of life that the Mafia and its competitors represented.

Adam continued in a hushed and awed voice, "It is said that when Gabriel Gordon played his high G at the Cotton Club, someone would die that same night."

"Gordon was an enforcer for Owney Madden, who was with the Dutch Schultz gang. So, he was either warning someone, or marking someone, or just adding to the terror, don't you think?" Hawkes had gone through his own period of fascination with the stories of the New York City Mafia families, and he rarely forgot a story. He looked at the trumpet again. "Hey, Adam? Did you see these scratches in the pewter?"

"Naw, haven't looked at it that closely yet," Adam said. "Where?"

Picking up a magnifying glass, Hawkes showed Adam the small scratches in the soft pewter.

"Okay – when you finish processing this, send me pictures. I have a hunch that this trumpet served a couple of purposes."

Adam looked at him quizzically, but Hawkes did not elaborate. "You going to tell me what you're thinking, Doc?" he tried, but wasn't surprised by the grin on Hawkes' face when he shook his head.

"Let's see where the evidence takes us, shall we? Mac said to put this case on the back burner, Adam. Don't tell me you've finished up all the other cases we had pending?"

Adam flushed, "Danny and Lindsay were here for about four hours. That got us a little caught up. I'm off, actually. Just interested in this."

Hawkes nodded his head thoughtfully, "She okay?"

Adam flushed even deeper. "I guess. Danny was watching out for her." He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "They good together?"

Hawkes nodded again, carefully not looking at Adam. "It was really just a matter of time, Adam."

Adam turned away, and stared very hard at his computer screen. "Yeah, I know." Once he was sure he had his face under control, he turned back and grinned a little uncertainly at Hawkes, "Sure seems funny, though. Danny Messer? With one woman?"

"The right woman, maybe," Hawkes tried not to show his sympathy; Adam's crush on Lindsay had been obvious to someone who watched the world as carefully as Sheldon Hawkes, but he wouldn't step on Adam's dignity. No harm in making sure he realized what Hawkes had known a long time, though: certain people, certain couples, filled the world they inhabited, leaving no room for anyone else.

Adam sighed unhappily, then leaned forward to stare at the trumpet again as Hawkes clapped a hand on his shoulder and started to say something. Just then, his cell phone began to chime merrily and he cursed the sick sense of humour some dweeb in Tech support had – they were always finding the most inappropriate ringtones and re-programming the phones. Hawkes didn't even recognize this tune, which meant the children had been playing again.

"Hawkes." His voice betrayed him: tired and impatient to be home.

"Dr. Hawkes? I am very sorry to disturb you. This is Dr. Suq. Nasreen?" Her voice was cautious and very quiet.

Hawkes gave a mental groan, "Note to self – always answer the phone as if you want to talk to the person on the other end of the line." He waved to Adam a little apologetically and moved away, saying out loud, "Nasreen. It's nice to hear from you. I'm sorry – it's been a long day. Can I help you with something?"

She still sounded strained when she replied, "No. I mean yes – if you would. I know it's a lot to ask, Dr. Hawkes …"

"Sheldon, please."

Her voice steadied, "We've had some trouble here at the clinic. I know the police officers who came were just doing their job, but Miriam and Kathleen and I …"

Hawkes had already been moving fast, but he sped up as he heard the fear in her voice.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY

Stella Bonasera was no man's fuck buddy.

She sat in the café, drinking her third – fourth? – cup of coffee in twenty minutes, waiting for Don Flack Jr. to make an appearance.

She was waiting because she wanted to hear his lame-ass excuse for his behaviour over the last twenty-four hours, she assured herself. Not because her heart hurt at the thought of not seeing him, not hearing the needy edge in his voice, not seeing that predatory look in his eyes when he talked to her, watching her as if his sanity depended on her next move.

She didn't believe in friends-with-benefits – you always ended up losing both the benefits and the friendship. She didn't object to one-nights stands in theory; she just preferred as a rule, in the morning, to remember the name she'd been screaming the night before.

Unless, of course, he wasn't in her bed the morning after.

She flagged down the waitress and held out her cup mutely for another cup of coffee.

She was prepared to harden her heart when he finally showed up, to treat him coolly, to listen dispassionately before walking out on him. But when he finally showed up, his tie pulled loose, his hair rumpled, and his face exhausted, she reached quickly across the table and ran her hand over his soothingly.

"Just coffee, Doreen," he said in a tired voice to the waitress who had been schlepping coffee in the joint since the days his own father had been on the neighbourhood beat.

She handed him the cup she had poured as soon as he walked in through the door, and said firmly, "Eggs. Scrambled eggs with cheese and salsa on the side. And you'll eat every bite of it or I'll call your mama down here to back me up." She shot Stella a stern glance, "You see he eats it, Detective."

Stella nodded obediently, smiling a bit at the hectoring tone.

Don grabbed her hand and kissed it, "You are too good to me, Doreen. When are you going to marry me and let me take you away from all this?"

"Go on with you, you fool. I'll be back in a minute."

Don watched her go, the gleam brought into his eyes by the bantering flickering and dying when he looked back at Stella. He shrugged helplessly, "I'm sorry, Stel. I meant to take you out for a proper dinner … but there's been developments in the Garrett case and I'll have to get back."

Stella shrugged, ignoring the pain. Nicks and bruises were nothing new on her heart. "I heard. Robert Taglia was killed."

He nodded, rubbing his hands over his face. "Execution-style but with a cattle prod. Something new every day. Joe Jr. was picked up last night drunk and disorderly, packing a 9mm and threatening persons unknown. He lawyered up as soon as Angell tried to talk to him this morning," He sighed, "But there's worse. Fingerprints found on Garrett's cell phone came back to Antony Messer."

Stella could feel the air around her get cold, "Oh Don, no."

He reached out for her hand. "I haven't told him yet. I don't think Mac has either. Hawkes only got the hit after Danny had gone home."

"He went to the Island last night, to see his cousin, Nikki," Stella said quietly, twining her fingers in his. "Lindsay was in a panic. I told her I didn't think Gino would bother using Nikki to get to Danny. Tell me I wasn't wrong."

Don shrugged helplessly. "I don't know."

A plate was put down in front of him, covered with a mound of scrambled eggs, two pieces of bacon, and enough hash browns to feed the Irish Army. "Get that on the inside of you," Doreen ordered, brown eyes twinkling in her dark face. She turned her attention to Stella, "And you can't live on coffee, miss. What can I get you? We serve breakfast all day and night in this joint – never know when someone is just getting out of bed around here."

Stella flushed just a little, but smiled and said, "Just a bagel, please, Doreen. With cream cheese?"

Doreen shook her head disapprovingly, but went off to fill the order.

"Eat, Don." Stella busied herself with folding and re-folding her paper napkin. When the silence grew too much for her, she looked up, to see Don not eating, staring at her. "What? If you don't eat those eggs, they'll be all cold and rubbery and Doreen will have to kick your ass."

"She better get in line, then," Don said slowly, shoveling a forkful of eggs into his mouth.

Stella said nothing, just raised an eyebrow inquisitively.

He reached out and grabbed her hand again, saying urgently under his breath, "Why are you talking to me? Why aren't you furious with me?"

"Who says I'm not?" Stella slid her hand from Don's to receive the small plate Doreen was handing her. "Thank you, Doreen. This looks delicious." She waited until the waitress had moved out of earshot before saying lightly, "I've been used as a pit stop before: quick tune-up and lube before you go on to the next thing."

She glanced up at his silence to see that he had gone perfectly white, eyes blank.

"It wasn't like that. It's not like that, Stella." His voice wheezed out as if she had struck him.

"No? That's good to hear. Felt like that." She kept her voice cool and a little hard, though no one would have seen the effort it took her.

"Oh, Christ," he whispered under his breath before leaping up and walking quickly out of the café.

She sat for a moment, stunned. Well, this was becoming a pattern, she thought, as she searched in her purse for some money and threw it on the table. Grabbing the trench coat he had left on the bench beside him, she followed him out the door. She mouthed a quick apology to Doreen, who was watching with arms akimbo and shaking her head in dismay, and flew out the door to catch up to him. No one walked out on a fight with Stella.

She looked both ways, but couldn't see him on the street. On a hunch she went to the left, and heard him before she saw him.

"Oh God, Don." She reached for him, wrapping his coat over his shoulders as he bent miserably over a dumpster, losing whatever he had managed to get into his stomach in the past few days. "Okay, it's okay. Look, I'm calling you a cab, okay? I'm sorry. You need to go home." She could have seen he was sick, she berated herself. She could have seen he needed sleep more than food. She should have insisted he go home.

Her self-flagellation ramped up when he turned to look at her: dead blue eyes in a pale grey face. When, unthinking, she pulled him into her arms, she could smell the harshness of the vomit overlaying his usual spicy scent, and she ran a hand through his hair comfortingly.

"Come on, Don, let's go home," she whispered, not sure where it was she wanted to go, but knowing it was with him.

He hugged her hard, but stood up and shook his head gently. He let his hands run down to hold hers and squeezed them a little, "I can't. I have to … do something before I go back in to work. Stella, would you …?" His breath hitched uncertainly as she looked at him. He cleared his throat and started again. "Would you … come and see my father with me?"

She looked at him in surprised puzzlement. "See your father? Why?"

He shrugged uncomfortably, "I want him to meet you."

"I've met your father, Don. Lots of times." Lieutenant Don Flack Sr. had performed many duties in his years on the force, and Stella had shaken the hand of the NYPD legend on many formal and informal occasions.

Don sighed and rubbed a hand over his face, "I want him to meet you, Stella. Not Detective Bonasera. You. Just Stella."

She opened her mouth to ask why, but bit her tongue at the defeated look on his face, and simply nodded instead.


	34. Chapter 34: Acceptance

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY. Poetry not otherwise referenced is original._

_A/N: Here's a last installment for you – I'll be in a tent on the beach for the next week, so am VERY unlikely to be posting any new chapters until after the 21__st__ (and everyone will be too busy reading the final HP book then to worry about it!) So enjoy this chapter, and I hope you will all come back at the end of July to see what I've come up with!_

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

* * *

_**Giants**_

_They stride across the landscape of childhood_

_Voices booming, loud and commanding,_

_Feet heavy, crushing, careless of small treasures_

_Careless of young feelings._

_A joke becomes veracity: the dragon in the furnace room –_

_The ghost in the attic who howls at night for human blood._

_Pirate booty carefully hidden in a hollow under a tree_

_Gets thrown on the compost heap to dwindle into muck_

_To feed the despised zucchini in the spring_

_To be fed to the small giant-killer in the fall_

_Who fights uselessly against the imperative voice:_

"_Eat all your vegetables so you grow up big like your father."_

_Every morning measuring himself against the wall,_

_Every morning disappointed that vegetables are not magic beans._

_Then one day, when zucchini is no longer detested, _

_When the wall is no longer the measure of his self-worth,_

_He turns to _

_ Look _

_ Down_

_On the giant._

_SMT2007_

* * *

**Chapter 34: Acceptance**

Adam glanced at his watch for the hundredth time as he booted down the street. He hadn't forgotten. Not really. He had just got caught up in examining the trumpet, and when his email had alerted him to the appointment, he had only half an hour to get down to Central Park, and now it was nearly quarter to eight and she hadn't answered his email or sent him a text telling him she would wait, so this might all be for nothing…

His mind wound down at that point. He slowed his pace as he reached the Starbuck's he had set as their meeting place. At least if she stood him up again, he could have his coffee in the cool evening air before dragging his sorry butt home. Alone. As usual.

He shook off the memory of Hawkes' sympathetic face. Why did everyone seem to think he liked Lindsay Monroe? She was sweet, he admitted, and kind and far too nice for a player like Danny Messer, someone who got everything he wanted, with seemingly little effort.

The caustic spurt of jealousy shamed him. Danny was his friend, he reminded himself, had never been anything but supportive even if he did like to tease. It was the way he showed affection, Adam told himself, and was secretly thankful Danny liked Don Flack better than he did Adam Ross. Sarcasm, even the casual teasing type Danny specialized in, could sit curled in his stomach like a venomous snake for weeks.

It had been obvious from the beginning that Messer had set his sights on the new girl; no one else had a chance from the moment he called her Montana. And Adam wasn't stupid; a lifetime of being on the alert for landmines in a seemingly placid life had taught him to watch carefully, so he had known about Stella and Flack weeks before Hawkes did. Just like he'd known about Mac and Peyton.

He wanted someone for himself. Was that so odd? He was a nice guy, he assured himself, had a decent job, an acceptable apartment. Had got himself out of Phoenix to try and make it in the big city, and he was doing it. From being the dogsbody of the lab, he had moved into the field on occasion, and Mac had promised him he could do more if he wanted. He had friends at the lab and in his "World of Warcraft" guild.

"Note to self. Do not mention WoW to Aisha," he reminded himself. Bad enough to be an identified lab geek without adding computer game player to the Loser ID card.

Keeping his gaze a foot or so in front of his feet, he walked into the coffee shop, waiting patiently while two young girls argued about the relative merits of low-fat double shot mocha with raspberry versus peppermint flavouring, and then whether to share a low-fat, high-fibre fruit and nut bar or a triple chocolate brownie. Adam grinned when, as he had mentally predicted, they finally placed their orders and walked away with two brownies and coffees piled high with whipped cream.

As he stepped up to the counter, a large man bumped into him, nearly knocking him into a display stand, and snarled, "Watch what the hell you're doing. I'll have a large double shot Americano and make it quick, would you? I'm in a hurry here."

The barista looked anxiously at Adam, who shrugged and stepped back to let the other man have his space – as much space as it took. Hands in pockets, he hunched his shoulders and stared at his feet until the barista said timidly, "Sir? What can I get for you?"

Flushing, Adam stepped up to the counter, into the space recently vacated, and gave his order in his usual soft voice: cappuccino with extra foam, venti. He held out a five dollar bill, and flushed when the young cashier firmly shook her head, blowing strands of her blond hair out of the way as she rolled her eyes. "It's on us today, sir. To apologize for what just happened. It really was inexcusable."

Adam stood dumbly, still holding out the money, and shook his head when the barista said under his breath, "The guy's a pig, and some day someone is going to teach him a lesson about pushing other people around."

In Adam's experience, bullies never learned a thing.

He waited patiently at the end of the counter, murmuring his thanks to the barista and smiling at the cashier, who blushed and giggled. Then Adam turned around and nearly ran into a woman standing behind him, spilling some of the hot coffee over his hand.

"Shit," he said on an intake of breath, and quickly put the cup down to wring the liquid off his hand.

"Adam? I'm so sorry! Hardly the way I wanted to meet you for the first time!"

Adam looked up, and then looked up a little more. The voice was deep and husky, like dark chocolate poured over whiskey, he thought, dazed. Or maybe rum; there was a hint of the Islands running through it. The eyes looking into his in sympathetic concern were honeyed amber, and glowed intensely. The skin, and Adam did recognize the colour of it, was a rich caramel and why did everything about this woman make him think of food, he wondered dazedly? Sweet, rich, slightly forbidden food?

She was holding his hand, looking at the small burn on his knuckles and clucking anxiously, asking the barista for some ice in a cloth, leading him to a chair, and wrapping the cold cloth around his hand. Murmuring soothingly, she sat beside him, gently pulling the cloth back to check on the angry red mark across his skin.

"Oh, Adam, that doesn't look good. I'm so sorry; I'm not usually so clumsy. I was just anxious because I was so late – I didn't want you to think I was standing you up again. I tried phoning, but your cell went straight to voice mail."

Adam just sat and watched her, incapable, it appeared, of saying anything sensible. Every man and most of the women in the room were watching her openly or covertly. She seemed utterly unconscious of her effect on 90 of the population.

She bent her head and kissed his hand gently, and he nearly jumped out of his skin and went dancing down the street in his bones. She stood up, and held a hand out to him, and silently, he followed her out the door to one of the little tables sitting on the sidewalk, where Adam had thought he would be spending an evening alone.

"Now, can we try that again?" she said, her voice intimate and soft. "Adam Ross? It's nice to meet you. I'm Aisha Blanco."

Adam looked up into laughing amber eyes, and saw nothing else.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY

Don flagged a cab and muttered the direction to the driver in tones too low for her to hear. It wasn't a long trip, and Stella glanced sideways at Don when the driver pulled up in front of a nondescript building with an ambulance bay in front. His face was drawn still, his eyes blank.

She didn't speak as he pulled her out of the car, tossing some money at the driver without a word. He kept her hand in his as the door opened silently on their approach, allowing them entrance into the still, somber building.

Stella knew instantly that this was more and less than a hospital. The underlying smell of imminent death wafted around their feet, and although staff members greeted Don cheerfully as they passed through pale green corridors with slightly yellow lighting, their voices remained hushed and a little too preciously reverent, as if to say, "The people here are dying, you know."

"Aren't we all?" Stella thought cynically. She thought she preferred the macabre zaniness of the morgue, with Sid telling long pointless stories about his odd exploits, and Hawkes' eager investigations of strange deaths, and Marty Pino's endless re-hashing of sports events that had been decided before he was even born. It was more honest.

Don strode down the hallway, smiling tightly at the people who spoke to him, and pushed open the door to a small room at the end of the corridor. He paused long enough to take one deep breath, then swung into the room with a confident air.

"Hey, Dad. I brought someone special to see you." His voice was breezy but quiet, and Stella noticed that he moved close to the bed, standing near the window so his father would not have to strain to look at him.

Stella held her breath as Don Flack Sr. turned to her, a smile creasing his face. She would not have known him. His face had been as familiar to her – to all young rookies – as the face of the president of the United States or the mayor of New York. On the television, in media shots, speaking for the department, the Lieutenant was the first and last word, the interview every reporter dreamed of. No politician, his blunt, sarcastic comments made for great sound bites. A few inches shorter than his son, he had effortlessly commanded attention with his flashing personality, dark good looks and striking blue eyes.

Now he lay, bleached grey against the white hospital pillow, flesh carved away to expose a skull under unruly masses of black hair shot through with exhausted grey. Tubes fed oxygen into his nose; an IV dripped slow relief through his arm. A faded thin blanket was tightly tucked around his emaciated body, immobilizing him from the chest down. Stella had never seen him still; like Flack, his energy had always seemed a little too big for the room. Now all that energy had dissipated, leaving a void unfilled.

"Well, Detective Bonasera…" his voice was thready, but he cleared his throat painfully and started again, "Donnie, go find the detective a cup of crappy coffee, would you?"

Stella said quickly, "Just water, Don."

Flack glanced at her questioningly, but she nodded and sat down in the chair placed beside his father's bed. "Need something, Dad?"

"A cigarette and shot of whiskey for me, son," his father sighed.

"Yeah, I'll get right on that. Back in a minute, Stel."

Stella watched him walk out the room, then turned her attention back to the man lying in the hospital bed. He was observing her carefully. "I'd ask you how you are, but …" She shrugged helplessly. There was no point in lying.

Flack Sr. gave a bark of laughter, "That's the edge you're famous for. Yeah, the doctors told me a month. The nurses say it'll be within the week. I'm taking bets on tomorrow. Want in?"

Stella blinked back tears. "With you holding the book? That hardly seems fair!"

He reached out for her hand, and surprised, she twined her fingers through his. "I'm going to ask you for a favour, Stella."

"Anything."

"Anything for a dying man. You left out that part."

"Didn't think it needed to be said."

He grunted in amused assent; then his face grew somber again and he looked at their hands. "Do you care about him, Stella? I'm sorry to push. If I had more time, I'd be more subtle." He looked into her eyes and grinned at her doubt-filled look. "Well, I'd try to be more subtle."

She widened her eyes a moment, took a deep breath, then said to Don's father what she had not yet completely admitted to herself, "I love him."

Flack Sr. closed his eyes and sighed, but squeezed her hand tightly a moment. "Stick with him, 'kay? Things are going to get hard. Really hard. I wish I had more time, but …"

Stella swallowed a sob.

When Don came in the room a few minutes later, holding a bottle of water in his hand, she was standing by the window staring out blindly. After glancing at the bed and seeing his father asleep, he came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her and resting his forehead on her shoulder.

She reached up and ran her hand through his hair. "Why didn't you tell me?" she said quietly. "Why didn't you tell anybody?"

"It was quick. I mean this … the hospitalization part. He wouldn't see the doctor, even when it was obvious the cough wasn't going away. By the time Mom forced him in, there was nothing they could do." Flack chanced a look behind him, but his father was still sleeping. "He refused any treatment. Said it was his time, and he'd rather go fast."

Stella turned in his arms and hugged him hard. She could feel the tension in his body, which he controlled so carefully. She wished she could absorb enough pain out of him that he could at least take in a full breath, but she had no right: this was his burden.

"He's been telling me things, Stel. Things about Danny, about the Messers. I don't know what to do." His voice was so quiet, she could hardly take in the significance of the words, but now at least she could put together some of what he had said the previous night.

She pulled him closer, whispering, "Whatever you decide will be the right decision, Don. Your dad trusted you with this because he knew you could do it. You aren't capable of getting this wrong."

Slowly, slowly, she felt him relax at the edges, although at the core he was still coiled tight, waiting to jump.

"Donnie? Donnie!" The voice was hoarse and cracked again.

"Right here, Dad." He pulled slightly away from Stella, but kept his eyes on her face.

"Shouldn't your ma be here by now?"

"She's on her way, Dad. She'll be here in just a few minutes."

Stella stepped out of Don's arms, giving his shoulders a quick squeeze. "I should go."

He didn't argue, although he looked like he desperately wanted to.

She bent over the bed and gave Don Flack Sr. a quick kiss on the cheek.

"Come back and see me again? You're better looking than most of the woman around here."

She grinned at him, "What is it with the flirts in this department? First Sid Hammerback … now you. Didn't you old men get the memo about appropriate work language?"

He eyed her low cut top admiringly, "Must have been put in the same pile as the one about appropriate work attire!"

She laughed out loud, and made sure she gave him a good look as she bent over to kiss him again, whispering in her ear, "My bet's on you beating that month they gave you, sir. Don't disappoint me."

She smiled at Don and walked out of the room, waiting until she got to the closest washroom before bursting into tears.


	35. Chapter 35: Targeted

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY. Poetry not otherwise referenced is original._

_A/N: Sorry to have been gone so long – the relaxing holiday turned out to be neither relaxing nor a holiday, so things were a bit complicated. I'll try to get a few chapters up before the next attempt at getting away from it all (which doesn't work when you just pack most of it up and take it with you!)_

_If you have written me a message or left a review or posted a new chapter that I haven't reviewed – I apologize unreservedly. I'll try to catch up over the next few days._

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

* * *

_**Mosaic**_

_Every time I stop to look, I see another small moment,_

_Momentum, movement showing traces of your existence._

_You speak: I hear a note from your past, from my future,_

_A snatch of melody presently capturing who you were, are, will be._

_A minute with you and I can feel the weight of time:_

_All the choices, decisions, coincidences that make up a life,_

_Which make up a journey from here to there, from then to now._

_I want to preserve the now – like small bones in peat –_

_A fossil record of when and where we are,_

_But the moment passes: present is past in a gasp,_

_And I stumble along into the future,_

_Holding out a hand to you._

* * *

**Chapter 35: Targeted**

Hawkes never did know how he made it from the police station to the clinic – he seemed to have a vague memory of jumping a few intersections and perhaps even turning on his police lights at one point. He preferred to think he had been cool and collected when he ran up the stairs of the Sisters' Centre for Wellness, but the small crowd of muttering men who seemed to congregate at the end of the block stirred and fluttered like a flock of pigeons in Times Square as he passed through them, so he might not have presented quite as calm a picture as he would have liked.

"Angell? What happened? Is everyone all right?" Hawkes flashed his ID at the police officer who stepped in front of him when he banged through the door.

"Doc? What are you doing here?" Detective Angell turned in surprise. "I already have a CSI team."

"I'm friends with the women who run the clinic," he said briefly. "One of them called me. What happened here?" He didn't think about it; he automatically began processing the scene, his heart in his throat as he took in the destruction in the lobby.

Angell shrugged, "Looks worse than it was, Hawkes. A couple of kids, that's all. They ran through, tore the place up a little. We've called DHS in."

His ears pricked up at that, "Department of Homeland Security? What the hell for?"

"Because we deal in cases of homegrown terrorists, sir. And, together with the threatening messages, and the past history of certain members of the staff, this looks like a typical opening gambit in an increase in terrorist activity."

Hawkes turned around and watched as a tall man with startling white hair over a deeply tanned face swung into the foyer of the clinic with the self-confidence of a man who never makes a mistake.

Hawkes had autopsied more victims who got in the way of men who believed they never made a mistake.

"Special Agent Troy Grant. And you are?" The tone was dismissive, the hand held out merely a convention impatiently followed.

"Dr. Sheldon Hawkes, NYPD Crime Lab." Hawkes made sure to grip Grant's hand a little too tightly. Pissing games were time-honoured male rituals, he thought, with an inward grimace for how quickly he fell into the stereotype.

"We have a team already processing the site, Doctor." Grant's eyebrows rose at the title. "We really don't need a doctor – I think we have enough here already." He smirked a little.

"I was called to the scene by the victims. If I may?" Hawkes indicated the hallway Grant had just come from, asking tacit permission to enter the scene.

Grant nodded brusquely, ice-grey eyes watching Hawkes' every move. As Hawkes passed him, the agent said in a quiet voice, "Try to convince them their best bet is to co-operate fully with the authorities, Doctor. They are swimming in some deep waters here."

Miriam had never been good at sitting back under abrasive men, Hawkes thought with a smile. Out loud, he retorted, "I'll advise them as I see fit, within the letter of the law, Special Agent."

He could feel glacial eyes burning as he made his way down the hall to the meeting room he had seen before when he came with Stella and Flack. When he walked in the room, Miriam turned to him with gratitude, Kathleen said, "Oh thank God" loudly, but Nasreen barely looked at him. When he put his hand gently on her arm, she turned to him, head still down, hands covering her face, and burrowed into his arms like a frightened child. He held her as she sobbed silently, feeling the despair flow through her like water through a desert.

"What happened?" he said quietly, rubbing Nasreen's back gently.

Miriam and Kathleen were sitting closely together, hands entwined, and exchanged one of those glances in which many things are said without a word. "Four young men," Miriam started.

"Just boys, really," Kathleen added, protectively.

"Young men," Miriam corrected firmly, but understandingly, "Ran through the clinic, breaking things and shouting."

"Infidels. They called ME an infidel!" Kathleen shook her head, torn between amusement and anger. Unconsciously, her fingers went to the rosary that hung from her belt. Hawkes wondered if she had been in holy orders, then wondered where that idea had come from.

"They smashed our computer. Rica stepped out to stop them and was knocked over. She was cut when the computer smashed. She's been taken to the hospital; they haven't told us which one yet." Miriam was biting her lip and Hawkes could see how hard won her seeming calm was by the spots of blood on her teeth. She had bitten through her lip at least once.

"Like that Nazi out there would tell us anything," Kathleen muttered.

"I can find out how she is in just a minute, Miriam. Don't worry." He still had not let go of Nasreen, although she had slowly stiffened in his embrace. When she put her face up and took a step back, he was surprised at the regret he felt.

He urged her to sit down beside Kathleen on the couch, but when she shook her head and moved to the window, staring out at the little courtyard just blushing into spring, he did not insist.

"How long did it take?" Hawkes sat down, leaning forward, his hands loosely clasped in front of him. He did not take notes; he rarely needed to.

"Minutes. Maybe less. They just ran through, shouting and knocking things over."

"They trampled Amir. He's five. They didn't even seem to notice him – just ran right over him." Miriam voice was also full of outrage.

Nasreen closed her eyes and shuddered.

"But that wasn't the bad part," Miriam too was watching Nasreen. "When we called the police, they … they …"

"They blamed me." Nasreen's voice was cold and remote, as if she was no longer in the room. "They said it was because of me."

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY

Peyton had finally talked him out of the office by threatening to sedate him and take him home in an ambulance. Looking at her with no little pride, Mac thought she was just about capable of it too.

Not that he told her that, of course.

Instead, he had taken her advice and called a cab to get them both to his house. When he fell asleep in the back seat, she had woken him quietly, paid the driver and helped him into the brownstone. Blearily looking around him as they moved up the stairs, he thought for a moment that someone was watching them from under the windows near the side of the house, where the shadows were deepest, but by the time he could get his tongue moving to warn Peyton, the sense of someone observing was gone and he forgot about it nearly at once.

Mac couldn't even remember getting to the couch where he fell asleep. It could have been minutes; it could have been hours, before he heard the soft murmur of voices coming from the front hall. He thought about his options seriously, but could not make his body move. Although he couldn't see who was at the door, even from the living room, he could hear the conversation.

He heard Peyton saying, "Well, come in and have some coffee at least, won't you?"

He was a little startled to hear Reed's voice, "I don't want to interrupt anything, Dr. Driscoll."

Peyton laughed, "Well, I told you Mac was passed out in the living room, Reed. I don't know what you could interrupt other than his snoring! Come and talk to me; I could use some company until he wakes up. Then I promise to leave you two in peace to talk. How would that be?"

Mac could feel Reed's hesitation. In the conversations they had had, Mac had never bothered to explain Peyton's role in his life. It was just too complicated: Reed had finally been able to look for his biological mother only to find out that she was already gone; Mac didn't think it would be helpful to rub it in by letting him know she had also been replaced in his life.

Mac lay on the couch, struggling with his own sense of guilt, but still unable to move his limbs. His eyes refused to open; the only conscious sense he had was his hearing and he did not know whether to stop the conversation – try to explain, to justify – or let it work its way through.

Peyton, though, he could tell, had no hesitation. "Reed, if this is uncomfortable for you, I'll try to wake Mac up and I'll go." Her voice had its usual calm serenity; hard as he tried to, Mac could hear no concern or insult in it.

"No, no. That's all right. I guess he hasn't been getting much sleep. I guess I could use a coffee." He sounded uncertain and young, and Mac could almost see the bright light of Peyton's concern through his closed eyes. He sometimes forgot what a good doctor she had been before she came back to the ME's office, not to mention teaching people only a few years older than Reed at Columbia.

"I might even be able to find you a Coke." Her voice moved through the hallway and into the kitchen, and Mac had to strain to hear now.

"Do you want to practice what you need to tell Mac, or would you rather just tell me about your classes?"

It was the accent, Mac thought, which gave everything she said such an impression of calm control. Even when she was angry with him, she always sounded logical. Claire had been a bundle of emotions: a firefly sparking through his often bleak view of life. Peyton was more like a candle flame under glass – a cool steady light.

Reed sighed, a huge gust that Mac almost felt two rooms away. He could hear Peyton opening the fridge to find the cans of pop he had bought one day in hopeful expectation that Reed would learn to be comfortable in his home, in his life. He heard the kettle being filled at the sink, then the sounds of tea being made: Peyton taking down the little china teapot he had brought home a few days earlier, filling it with hot water, rinsing it once, then filling it again to heat through while the kettle boiled on the stove.

He wondered if Reed would find all that routine as calming as he did, or if it would make him nervous and impatient. Slowly the feeling was coming back into Mac's feet as he lay on the couch; he knew he was beginning to wake up properly.

"I think my mom is involved with the Mob," Reed said abruptly.

Peyton's voice was merely inquisitive, "Why?"

Mac could hear Reed gulping down a swallow of Coke, coughing a little as the bubbles caught him unaware. "I heard a guy talking. Did Mac tell you?"

"Why don't you tell me?"

"I heard some guys talking – they worked for Messer and Sons. They're doing all the construction contracts at Chelsea? For nearly the past year? They seem to get every one that comes up. So I was poking around, you know? Trying to find out if there was anything going on?" Reed's voice went on, slowly settling into rhythm as he explained what he had learned about Messer and Sons, especially about Gino Messer's connection with Danny's family.

"I thought it was a little weird, you know? I remember seeing Messer's name on the board when I was in the office talking to Mac. When I went to talk to him after Brian was killed? Then I looked him up – well I didn't mean to look him up. I was looking for stories about Gino. But there weren't any. Doesn't that seem weird? I mean, he's a major player in the city with the contracts he gets."

By now, Mac imagined, Peyton had made her tea and was sitting down across the table from Reed, watching him with that open questioning expression that always made Mac want to show off a little, try to impress her.

"So I found out about Danny Messer and his connection to the Tanglewood Boys – that was all over the media when his brother was attacked, I guess. But I found out something else – Lorenzo Sassone, that's Sonny's father, had been involved with Maureen Messer. That's Danny's mother."

"How ever did you find that out?" Peyton's voice was just ever so slightly admiring, and Mac would have grinned if he could. He was pretty sure Reed would be relaxing and expanding, eager to amaze.

After all, she got to him every time. Why should Reed be immune?

"There was a big – rumble, maybe – would be the right word? It was in 1968. Big fight between the Bonnano family and the Luccheses and the Westies – that's the Irish Mob. They have connections all over the continent. The fight was on Staten Island – well, all over it, really – and lasted a couple of days. It was referenced in some stories about the turf wars in New York between the gangs. There wasn't much, but you know how when you are looking for something, certain names just jump out at you? Well, I'd been looking for Messer and Sassone."

Reed paused and took another drink. His voice had slowed, growing more serious and mature as he marshaled his facts. Mac could almost see him working out how to present the information.

"So, in one of those fights, a Lorenzo Sassone ended up in hospital with a gunshot wound. A guy, Jamie Riley, was charged, but the case was thrown out of court when the witnesses started disappearing. In transcriptions of the court case, a Maureen Riley was called as a witness, but didn't appear. Riley is one of the big names in the Irish mob – Jamie Riley was one of the lieutenants. I couldn't find out anything about him after that court appearance in 1968. Danny Messer's mother's name is Maureen Riley Messer. I figure Maureen was a kid and must have been involved with someone she shouldn't have been. And it would make sense that Sassone was the one, right? I wonder how she got herself married to a Messer later?"

Mac had finally got himself off the couch, desperate to stop Reed from going any further with this line of speculation. Damn, you had to give the kid credit, he thought in dismay. He'd pulled together a few names, a mention of a turf war, and a gun shot, and worked a whole elaborate Shakespearian fantasy out of little but cobwebs and fairy dust.

The problem was, it might be true. And Mac had to stop Reed from going any further into this mess before he was swallowed up in it.

And now he was going to have to tell Danny, who had been mired in the mess his whole life, whether he knew it or not.

"Hey, Reed," he said heavily, as he walked into the kitchen. "You met Peyton."

Reed looked up at him a little uncertainly, and Peyton silently got up to make Mac a cup of strong coffee with two sugars, smiling at him with a brightly troubled look compounded of equal parts amusement and panic.

"We were just talking about the case – I needed to talk to you, but Dr. Driscoll said you were sleeping?"

"I was, but I'm awake now." Mac took the coffee from Peyton with a smile of thanks, fingertips lingering in a caress unnoticed by the young man now looking down at the tablecloth.

Mac sat across from him, rubbing his eyes tiredly. A quick glance at the clock confirmed his worst fears – he had slept only about two hours. But this really couldn't wait.

"Reed, I heard some of what you were telling Peyton. I need to ask you a favour. I need you to drop this."

With a sinking feeling in his heart, Mac knew the answer before Reed's stubbornly set jaw loosened enough to allow him to say quietly, "I'm sorry, Mac. I can't."


	36. Chapter 36: Gamesmanship

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY. Poetry not otherwise referenced is original._

_A/N: And the case gets a little more complicated. But that's okay – so do the people! Thanks as always to those reading, and those reviewing._

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

* * *

**_The Patriot Game_**

_The Irish bard sings of the Patriot Game_

_And the time it can take for a nation to flame_

_Into hatred and lies and a bitter refrain_

_And the killing of children again and again._

_And the peace that is won is thrown off like a toy_

_And the men who march off return broken young boys,_

_And the old men who sent them refuse to take blame_

_And they say it's all part of the Patriot Game._

_And the splintering of families and the cries of the jailed,_

_Before powerful men the dissenters who quailed_

_Are acceptable losses to the ones without name_

_Who profit from the sport of the Patriot Game._

_SMT2007_

Come all ye young rebels, and list while I sing,

For the love of one's country is a terrible thing.

It banishes fear with the speed of a flame,

And it makes us all part of the patriot game.

Irish Rebel Song

* * *

**Chapter 36: Gamesmanship**

Hawkes sighed and rubbed the back of his neck, trying to ease the tension that had settled over his shoulders. Knocking heads with a macho dick FBI agent had never been his favourite pastime and this guy was one for the record books. Hard-headed, overly confident, and completely uninterested in anyone's viewpoint but his own: that was Troy Grant.

However, he had finally agreed to let the three doctors go home for the evening, putting off any further questions until the next morning. His white eyebrows had risen far into his perfectly tanned forehead when Miriam and Kathleen had given the same home address and phone number, but he had carefully refrained from making any comments. Evidently, thought Hawkes, sensitivity courses could at least teach one when to hold one's tongue.

Hawkes had offered to take Nasreen home, but the panic in her eyes as she politely refused made him step back. Miriam had assured him that they would see her safely home. "Or perhaps," she had said, worry lining her face, "I'll just make her up a bed at our place. She's terribly shaken by this."

Hawkes wanted to howl. Why? Why had Grant blamed Nasreen, of all people, for an attack on the clinic? Why was Nasreen accepting the blame? He wanted to sit her down and make her answer his questions, but the cold tone he had heard in her voice had turned to ice in her eyes, and he was afraid to push for any more information.

Once he had seen them off the premises, he went to find Jen Angell. If he couldn't get the answers he needed from Nasreen, he would have to see what he could find on his own.

"So, Angell, what have you worked out so far?"

"Shouldn't you be gone by now, Hawkes?" she countered, eyes steely.

"Come on, Jen. It can't hurt to have another set of eyes on the scene, and I promise to step back if things get sticky, okay? Just talk it through as if I weren't here at all, and let's see what happens."

Angell looked at him carefully for a minute before she nodded crisply and started to go through the sequence of events.

She pointed to the door, "Just on closing time. They stay open until 6:30 or 7:00, depending on who's around and how many people are waiting to see a doctor. Lots of walk-ins, lots of people wandering in and out."

Hawkes nodded. He remembered how busy the small clinic had been the last time he had been there, with children running around underfoot, women sitting in corners talking quietly, a gentle ebb and flow through the building into the courtyard outside.

Angell walked to the front door; the glass had been broken and it hung loosely on its hinges. "They came through here: at least four boys."

"Boys?" Hawkes' voice was quiet.

Angell frowned, considering, then gave a sharp nod, "Varied impressions from different witnesses, naturally, but they all seem to agree they were young. Late teens, I'm guessing, maybe very early 20s. Mostly jeans and hoodies, with the hood up and faces covered. One was wearing a headscarf – you know, the black and white one like Arafat used to wear?"

"A keffiyeh," supplied Hawkes.

Angell nodded, "It was pulled over his face, so there was no way to identify him."

"You sent someone out there to talk to the watchers?" With a nod of his head, Hawkes indicated the small group of men who seemed to hover around the entrance to the clinic at all times.

"None of them would answer in English. Grant has requested a translator."

"Good luck to him. According to Nasreen, they speak several different languages." Hawkes had asked her about the men as they had walked past to get coffee; her answer had been typically brief and uninformative.

Angell shrugged, "So he'll have to find several translators." Her tone left Hawkes in no doubt that she was no more impressed with the special agent's arrogance than Miriam had been.

"So, they ran in, knocked over a bunch of stuff, hurt a little kid and Rica, then, what? Jumped the wall?" Hawkes was tracking their destructive path through the clinic.

"Basically, yeah."

"So why DHS, Jen? Why did you call them?" Hawkes kept his voice low.

"We're on Orange Alert here in New York, Hawkes. You know what that means. Anything that could possibly have security issues has to be reported. When they heard it was this clinic, they had a team down here in about fifteen minutes," Angell answered in tones to match, the two of them standing head to head near the back door.

"Why? Why this clinic?" Hawkes pushed.

"Because the community doesn't like it. Those men outside? Some are here every day: different men, according to the patrols, but about the same number. It's a kind of protest – they don't like Dr. Suq working with Drs. Beniamin and O'Connell."

"So it's religious?"

"Religious, cultural, misogynist – take your pick," Angell sighed. "Anyway, they don't do anything usually: just stand there. But this clinic gets graffiti-ed on a regular basis – racist spewing, mostly. It gets on average five bomb or death threats a month, Hawkes, and often Dr.Suq is specifically named. It isn't just the men out there that don't like her, either. There are about three anonymous calls a month accusing her of terrorist activities."

"You must be kidding," Hawkes scoffed.

"I'm telling you what the callers say. In the file are reports that she is deliberately infecting Americans with AIDs, that she is only aborting white babies, that she is implanting Muslim embryos in white women. The crazies have no limit to their imagination, Doc." Angell sighed, a hint of dismay in her eyes. "When those boys did their run through, you better believe everyone went on alert."

Hawkes nodded thoughtfully. "What do you think, Angell? A serious threat?"

She shrugged, "If I said I wasn't worried, I'd be lying. That being said, probably nothing will happen. Grant and his boys will get their jollies poking around, file a few dozen reports, and nothing more will happen."

"From your mouth to – well, take your pick – deity of your choice – ears," Hawkes said quietly as Special Agent Grant stalked over to where the two NYPD officers were standing.

"Have you got everything you need, Doctor? We are about ready to shut this down. The perps were found, by the way," he said casually to Angell.

She clenched her fists, but took a deep breath before she answered. "What do you mean they were found?"

"My boys went walkabout, found them lounging down the street laughing about the old woman going to hospital. Didn't take a CSI to figure it out." The sneer was obvious.

"You didn't think to inform NYPD?" Angell's voice was cool, but Hawkes could feel the wave of anger off her.

"Consider yourself informed, Detective," Grant replied crisply. "Naturally, you are invited to listen in on the interviews."

"Thank you for that small courtesy," Angell muttered under her breath.

"The three young men have been removed to our headquarters; if you would like to follow me…"

"What about the fourth?" Hawkes interrupted, with a quick glance at Angell.

"Four? We were told three," Grant glared at first one then the other detective.

Angell shook her head firmly, "Four: three in hoodies with the hood pulled up, one in a keffiyeh, with the ends pulled over his mouth and nose."

"Shit," Grant ground out between his teeth. "Jefferson," he grabbed an agent bustling by, "Those boys? What were they wearing?"

"Jeans and hoodies, boss, just like the wits said."

Grant swore under his breath again. Letting go of the agent and turning in one smooth move, he started towards the door.

Hawkes said blandly, "Looks like your boys missed the ringleader, Special Agent."

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-

Danny lay as still as he could, barely breathing. The room was nearly dark, the candles guttering, the music silenced. Lindsay, finally, was sleeping, her breathing soft and regular, her face peaceful.

He wanted to touch her smooth skin, to run his hands through her hair, but he didn't want to risk waking her. She had hardly slept since they left Montana, and he wasn't going to let anything disturb her now. Tears sparkled on her eyelashes, and Danny longed to kiss them off, to vow to her she would never cry again. But he lay still and silent, watching over her sleep.

It had all happened so fast in a way, although it had taken them nearly two years to get here. His friends would say it had been building since the moment he first saw her, and in a way they were right. How could they not be? Don, and in a different way, Stella, knew him better than anyone in his life ever had.

Better than his own family, no question about that. His grandmother, his _nonna_, had been the only in the family who had even tried to understand the little boy who preferred books to nearly everything but baseball, who wanted to learn Italian, who sat on the kitchen counter watching her cook, asking her how and why she put things together the way she did. Her death had left a hurt in his heart that could never be healed.

Until Don Flack, no one had ever tried to see beyond the tough New York street kid who had an amazing ability to predict where a baseball was going to pass over the plate, and calculate exactly where it needed to go next. From the ages of eight until twenty-one, that ability was the only thing the Messer family valued in him, the younger and unnecessary son.

Lindsay sighed and stretched in her sleep, and Danny froze until she lay still again, a slight smile on lips he longed to kiss.

The first time he had seen Flack had been the day his life changed forever: the day he had landed in hospital with a career-ending injury before his career had even started. He smiled ruefully at the memory: the painfully young beat cop, dark hair cut brutally short, shoes polished so brightly Danny could see his own eyes reflected in them. Flack had called the bus and stayed with him until the EMTs had loaded him up, talking to him calmly and quietly to keep him from passing out from the blow to the head that had taken him down in the first place.

When Flack had shown up at the hospital a day or so later, Danny had turned his back on him, refusing to hear the comfort the younger man had tried to offer. Flack had stood for a moment, then shrugged and handed him a piece of paper with a phone number on it. "Call me when you get out. We'll go for a drink – toast your survival."

Danny hadn't answered, but then found the phone number a few months later when he was cleaning out some old clothes in preparation to move into his own place for the first time. His change of programme had been accepted the day before: he had been in a general Sciences programme on an athletic scholarship, but after the beating, he had applied for a Forensic specialty. On impulse, he had phoned the number, and left a message at the beep: "Meet me at Sullivan's; I have something to celebrate."

Making friends with a cop while fighting a pain-medication addiction may have seemed an odd choice to others, but Danny knew himself well enough to know that even then, he had been reaching out for the help he could neither ask for nor completely accept.

Years later, he had asked Flack why he showed up at the bar that night. Flack had shrugged a little uncomfortably. "Don't know, really. Had nothing else going on that night."

Danny sighed. There was something up with Flack. He was on edge and anxious, and Danny didn't think the new relationship with Stella could explain that. He knew Flack had been panting after the dark-haired detective for a long time, and he could tell when they met the plane from Montana that they were together. Something in the pheromones: they smelled like a couple.

And yet this morning they had hardly looked at each other, speaking in the other's general direction, but not making eye contact. Something was wrong there, no question about it. At first, Danny had thought it was worry over what Lindsay, and perhaps even he himself, had been going through, but now, thinking back, he knew it was more. Don had been stressed, nervous, unhappy; Stella had been rigid, strained, edging towards anger. Something had gone wrong, badly wrong, but there had been no time.

No time to talk, to figure things out, no time to ask questions, to probe into things people didn't want to say. Danny shook his head; he had been so focused on Lindsay, he had ignored his oldest friends. Five days. It was only five days since Lindsay and he had come back from Montana. Things had been moving so fast, there had been no time to sit and consider all that had been going on. It was way past time for a review.

Carefully, Danny swung his legs out of the bed, stilling when Lindsay murmured low in her sleep, turning over with half the covers wrapped around her. She settled again and he slowly slid out, pulling on his jeans as he padded barefoot to her kitchen, stopping at the small desk in the living room to grab a piece of paper and pen.

He poured a glass of water and sat down at the kitchen table, writing names across the top of the page: Mac, Don. On one side, he added two more: Stella, Hawkes. After a moment's thought, he added Adam's, then Lindsay's and his. To the names scattered around the edges of the paper, he added a few more towards the centre, connecting them with lines: Mac to Peyton and Reed. He sipped the water, staring at the triangle a moment before adding a name off Reed's: Miranda Garrett.

Slowly, reluctantly, he wrote "Gino Messer?" drawing a thin line from it to his own name, then to Reed's, and a thicker one to Miranda's.

After a few more minutes' thought, he added his cousin Nikki's name to the list, linked to his own and to Gino's. She had asked for his help, but he was still not convinced the family wasn't somehow behind it. She was involved with a man, she had confided, a man her father did not like, a man she herself had some doubts about. She had asked Danny to look into his background, find out some things about him. She had asked him to use his connections.

It was the worst of standing between two worlds, Danny thought despondently. You could get used by both sides.

You could get killed by either.


	37. Chapter 37: Inspirited

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY. Poetry not otherwise referenced is original._

_A/N: As always, thanks to the people who review, the people who read, and the many wonderful people who listen to my endless doubts and worries about this story._

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

* * *

**_To the Bone_**

_Each conversation, you slice a little closer –_

_Paring away the comfortable layer_

_Of insulation I work so hard to maintain._

_A nick here, another there,_

_The slow inconsequential bleeding_

_Of all the ways I protect myself from _

_The too strong glare of scrutiny,_

_The flare of too public study._

_A pound of flesh does not satisfy you;_

_You collect the scraps in one test tube,_

_The blood in another:_

_Add compounds at will, mix and_

_Wait_

_To see what happens._

_You grow full of confidence and knowledge_

_And I fade_

_Into_

_Insubstantial_

_Disembodied_

_Film_

_SMT2007_

* * *

**Chapter 37: Inspirited**

To: Aisha Blanco

From: Adam Ross

Subject: Coffee

Hi – yeah, my hand is fine, don't worry. The ice did the trick no problem. I had a really nice time talking with you tonight. I thought it might be weird, you know? But it felt good. I can't believe you are into Second Life though. Lame, A, very lame.

So, what do you think? Dinner tomorrow? My treat – your choice.

Just remember I'm a civil servant, okay? Not a computer programmer for a hotshot publicity firm? I'm willing to spring for a great dinner, but I still have to pay my rent!

A

* * *

Adam hit send just as his IM alert beeped. He clicked on Aisha's picture and laughed when he read her status: _Aisha is crawling out of her skin: if found, please return._

_Hey there_ he typed.

_Dinner tomorrow – some place intimate? I promise to keep the rent check safe. You might need to scrounge food for the month, of course_ appeared on-screen.

Happily, Adam settled down to the second part of his first date.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY

"Come on, Danny. Are you going to tell me you've never checked someone out when you shouldn't have? You've never used all that stuff you know to find out more than you should?" Nikki had watched him shrewdly as the colour rose in his cheeks, adding more sugar to her coffee before digging in enthusiastically to the piece of apple pie smothered in ice cream the gum-snapping teenager had placed in front of her.

He had shaken his head anyway. Checking out what had happened to Lindsay in Montana was not the same thing – he and the team had been helping her. If anything, they had been checking out the Bozeman Police Department, and he thought with a pained grimace he wished they had done a more thorough job of it.

"Not for personal gain, Nikki, I can't. Especially not for someone in the family. But," he had raised his hand in anticipation of her protest, "I can give you a name. He's an ex-cop, used to partner a friend of mine. He's a good guy – a good cop. Gone private now – does mostly security work. He should be able to do a decent background check – find out enough for you to know whether you need something deeper or not." He had waited patiently for the sullen nod he had known was coming – Nikki really couldn't have expected anything more if she had been thinking about it.

She had grudgingly taken the piece of paper with Gavin Moran's name and number on it. They had chatted casually about family and people from the neighbourhood for a few minutes before Danny had pushed himself out of the booth.

"Look, Nik, I gotta go. It was good seeing you again. I hope … I hope this guy is one of the good ones. I mean, you deserve that. You deserve to be happy."

He had grabbed the bill, then turned back, "Nikki? Do you remember Rosa Fiorelli?"

After a moment's thought, Nikki had nodded, "Vaguely. She disappeared when we were about 15, didn't she? She was two, three years older? Louie's age? I was in school with her younger sister, Kat."

"You ever hear what happened to her?"

"Naw. She just disappeared. It important?"

"Don't know. Maybe." Danny had shrugged and gone to the till to take care of the cheque.

He knew, even without Mother Stella's voice now ringing in his head, that he should have just gone back to Lindsay's apartment, where she would be waiting, silent, worried. But when he had walked out of the diner, his feet had automatically turned down the street to a certain alley behind a neighbourhood store where a quick youngster could make a few bucks no one would know about as long as he could keep his trap shut. Then down another street until finally he was standing at the corner lot where most of his childhood had been spent and wasted.

Here he had learned his reflexes were unusually strong. Here he had learned that friends were nothing compared to team-mates. Here he had learned no one cared who your father was, or wasn't, as long as you could catch the ball and throw it accurately enough often enough to ensure a win every time.

Here he had lost his virginity under the rickety bleachers – the taste of beer and blood from biting his tongue still linked to the smell of dry rot and garbage and sex. Here he had held the dying body of his first, perhaps only friend from the neighbourhood, shot by an idiot boy trying to be cool.

There was no excuse, Danny thought tiredly, no issue to face or feud to answer to. Not even any real anger or hatred to face off against. Just a bunch of stupid boys playing at wiseguys and ending up with two dead and three in jail for life. A split second decision: a lifetime of regret.

Summed up the life most of them had led, really.

His feet had carried him on without thought to his parents' place. He had stood in the shadows across the street, watching his mother's silhouette move against the curtains – back and forth, back and forth – until he was reminded of a tiger in its cage, driven mad by loneliness and seclusion, by the unbearable weight of the sameness of day-to-day living.

He had stared up at the apartment he had grown up in, a little shocked by the knowledge that had flooded him. He knew, had always known, his mother was unhappy. Could it be that she was really more than that? Had she been suffering from depression or some other mental illness?

And would that make his memories of childhood easier to bear? Or immeasurably harder?

Memories of the caged tiger had led his thoughts inexorably to Lindsay. And when he had finally moved, stiff and cold to the marrow, he had realized he did not have his phone and could do nothing to ease the worry he knew she would now be wrapped in.

He glanced a little guiltily at the bedroom where Lindsay was still sleeping peacefully. She had not said a word the night before when he had stumbled in the door, shaking with cold, and, he was chagrined to admit, exhaustion. She had simply hugged him fiercely and disappeared into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. He had not even known she had been on the phone to Stella until Stel had tackled him that morning at the diner. He hadn't known about Stella bullying Lindsay into talking with Flack's friend Tony Reagan. He had only heard about that after texting Flack early and asking to meet at the gym.

Having come full circle in his thinking, Danny returned to his list, a slight frown on his face. Reagan? Why did that ring a bell? Something to do with Nikki. He closed his eyes and thought back to the conversation of the night before, bringing his trained memory to the task, consciously seeking out and bringing smells and colours to mind, then tuning in to Nikki's voice.

"You'll like him, Dan. He's sweet. And clever! He was at seminary for a while, long enough to get his teacher's certificate, but he was never meant for the priesthood. It would a crime against nature to for a man that fine to waste himself in the church." Danny could hear Nikki's salacious laugh. He could hear the jukebox, Sinatra crooning about wishes coming true and Trevi fountain.

His eyes were still closed when Lindsay cleared her throat.

"Danny? You okay?"

His eyes flew open and he said, "Seph Reagan."

Lindsay blinked, "Sorry?"

He shrugged and stretched out a hand to pull her closer. "A name I was trying to remember. Why are you awake?" His arms wrapped around her as he snuggled her body tight between his legs.

"I got cold." Her arms went around his neck and she dropped a kiss on his upturned face. "You okay?"

"Of course. I just couldn't sleep. I didn't mean to disturb you – you had a lot of sleeping to catch up on." He ran a gentle hand up her back, pulling her onto his lap.

She sighed, and relaxed a little, trying not to hurt him by putting any weight against him. "I'm good. No dreams."

"Not even of me? I'm hurt, Montana," he teased, treasuring the smile she bestowed like a prize for good behaviour.

"Do you need me to move? I'm not sure there's room enough for you, me, and your ego in the same chair," she teased, laughing as he rolled his eyes at her.

"What's this?" She caught sight of the paper he had been writing on, and pulled it over, curiously.

He moved as if to stop her, but stopped as a trace of hurt crossed her face. With a deep breath, he wrote in "Seph Reagan" next to Nikki's name, then drew a line and wrote "Father Tony?" He picked the paper up and handed it to her.

Lindsay, engrossed in the web of names and connections, moved to a chair next to Danny. His disappointment at the loss of contact was lessened somewhat by her look of concentration, the same look he had watched for months in the lab, the same intensity he had fallen in love with.

"Danny, this is your uncle and cousin, right?" Her finger traced the line between the names. He nodded. "And who is this?" Her finger stopped on the name Danny had just written in.

"Nikki's new boyfriend. Gino isn't happy, which is no big surprise. He hasn't liked any of her revolving boyfriends. Nikki is a little unsure too – she asked me to check him out."

Lindsay looked up, worry in her wide eyes. "Danny, you aren't going to, are you? I don't think Mac would like it. In fact, I'm sure he wouldn't…"

Danny interrupted before she began hyper-ventilating. "Linds, I haven't compromised the integrity of the lab since …" he paused when she opened her mouth, "Okay, since Hawkes was framed by Shane Casey. But that was completely justified, especially since I was right, and I just … bent … the rules a little," he said, with a slight frown at her smile.

"Oh-kay," she said, drawling it out with a hint of laughing doubt in her voice.

With a sniff, Danny looked at his web of connections again, then glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. "Two am?" he said in shock. "Geez, Montana, you should be sleeping." His body was rocked with a sudden, head-splitting yawn.

Lindsay stood up and this time made no attempt to hide the laugh. "Why don't you come with me, make sure I get some sleep?" She pulled him up out of the chair and moved very close to him, raising her face to his, her breath fanning across his face, "Eventually?"

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY

Stella was sitting on a bench outside the hospice, huddled in her warm coat as spring and winter battled it out on the New York streets: the residual warmth of the day quickly cooled by blustery wind seeking out exposed flesh. She had seen Dora Flack arrive with a tall dark woman who could only be one of Flack's sisters supporting her tenderly. She had waited patiently, almost unthinkingly, not worrying about the passage of time or the stares of passers-by. She had simply sat and waited for what was going to happen next. For once, she had given up control.

It could have been half an hour, it could have been two hours, before Flack stumbled out the door of the hospice, sitting heavily down on the concrete stairs of the building and resting his head on his knees for just a moment – just one deep breath's worth. Then he scrubbed his hands briskly over his face and looked up, across the street, straight into Stella's deep green eyes. She stayed where she was, not sure her legs would hold her up.

She could see him breathe deeply again, then push himself to his feet. Slowly he walked across the street. Slowly he sat beside her. Slowly his hand reached for hers, clutching it like a lifeline when she wrapped her fingers in his.

She leaned her head on his shoulder, waiting until his laboured breathing calmed. Finally, he spoke, "He's sleeping. My mother and my sister Marie are sitting with him."

She nodded silently.

"I never thought about it, you know? He seemed indestructible. And now I have a list of the hymns he wants at his funeral to give to Tony. Fucking hymns, Stel. _Abide with Me_ and_ Be Thou My Vision._" His voice broke on a quickly swallowed sob. He rubbed his free hand over his face. "Remember when those stupid reporters put me on TV? Few weeks ago?"

Stella squeezed his hand. Less than a few weeks ago, actually – time was weirdly compressed and lengthened these days. "Super-Cop." The picture with the little boy Flack had rescued, the memory of which still squeezed her heart.

Flack snorted in disgust. "Yeah, and didn't he ride me for that one! Remember what Mac said about the shots of my dad?"

"That stock pictures and footage of well-known personalities are archived for obituary purposes."

"He went into hospital the day before we picked Dan and Linds up from the airport."

Stella tried to hold them in, but the tears defeated her, forcing their way out under her eyelashes. She bit her lip; tears were not her prerogative.

"Shit, Stella." Leaning forward, head in his hands, Flack finally gave in to his own rage and grief, and Stella held him through the wrenching awkward tears of a man unused to crying.

When he could breathe again, when he could stop the shaking, when he could sit up, she cupped his face in her hands and kissed him on the mouth. "Let's go talk to Tony, Don."

It was his turn to silently nod. It was time.


	38. Chapter 38: Step by Step

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY. Poetry not otherwise referenced is original._

_A/N: Sorry for the slow updates – holiday time is nearly over. Of course, then work starts again! Thanks to all who are keeping pace with me, especially those who review._

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

* * *

_**Blood Calls to Blood**_

_What defines the members of the family?_

_Some say blood – the genetic code trapped inside_

_The bones and cells of each person_

_Tracing a lineage back to the origins of humankind itself._

_Others say love – that indefinable sense of belonging_

_Of comfort, of knowing_

_The need to connect and be connected with others of your kind._

_But how can these be separated into family and not family?_

_We are all human – coded into our cellular structure_

_Are the same needs, the same desires, the same compulsions._

_If blood calls to blood, we are all connected._

_We are all connected._

_SMT2007_

* * *

**Chapter 38: Step by Step**

Mac sat back, took a slow sip of his coffee, then nodded decisively, "Okay."

If Peyton looked surprised, Reed looked stunned. "Okay?"

Mac nodded again, face impassive, "Okay."

"What exactly do you mean, okay?" Reed sounded suspicious.

"I mean you want in on this, you're in." Mac lifted a hand as Reed started to whoop. "Just like any other member of the media. You get whatever info I feel like handing out, or can let you have without damaging my case. In return, you give me whatever actual facts you come up with. No fairytales, Reed. Solid evidence, backed by real documentation."

He took another sip of his coffee, watching as the boy mulled it over. Miranda Garrett was going to kill him, he thought gloomily.

Reed sat forward, the light of negotiation in his eye. "How solid before I have to give it to you? And what can I use without your permission?"

"Don't give me speculation or hunches. I can't stop you spinning tales for your blog, but I don't want to see anything that could get you killed, Reed."

The blunt statement had Reed sitting back in his chair, face a little pale. "You're exaggerating."

Mac shrugged, kept his voice a little hard, "You've already been kidnapped. That was just for asking questions. What kind of attention do you think speculating will garner?"

Reed picked up the soda can and drank, one hand fidgeting with a spoon on the table. He took a deep breath. "I won't publish anything, even on the blog, until we have a case." He looked into Mac's eyes, and added, "I expect you need to know more, then."

Mac's heart constricted. Claire's eyes. Every time he saw them in the boy's face, it hurt a little differently. He could feel Peyton looking at him too, but he didn't return her glance. She could read him too well.

He cleared his throat and nodded, "Everything this time, Reed. I need to know whatever you actually know, and not just what you have extrapolated from available evidence."

Reed looked down, to Mac's relief, and nodded in turn. "Okay. I told you about the construction workers I overheard. I didn't tell you I had snuck into their trailer." He winced at Peyton's gasp, but went on doggedly. "I had snuck in to see if I could find anything – you know – incriminating."

"What were you looking for?" Mac's voice, as always, remained calm, although Peyton must have seen the lines deepening around his mouth, because she took his hand under the table and squeezed it.

Reed shrugged, "I'd know when I found it, I thought. Hacking into the computers would have been more efficient, but I didn't know any of them well enough to make an educated guess at passwords and so on, so I thought I'd scout."

"And someone came in?" Mac surmised.

Reed went white, but adopted a deliberately casual tone, "Yep. Two guys. One was the foreman, I think – I'd seen him around. His hard hat was usually a different colour, and he was always yelling at the other guys."

"Sounds like the boss," Peyton interjected with a smile at Mac, trying to lighten the tense mood.

Reed grinned back and relaxed fractionally. "Yeah. Anyway, he had this other guy with him, called him Tag. Big guy, dark hair and eyes…"

He went on to describe the second man, but Mac only had to close his eyes to see the features of Robert 'Tag' Taglia on a slab, the Y-cut obscene against grey skin.

"They were talking about the contracts Messer and Sons was getting. Tag kept saying, 'It's in the bag. Whaddaya worried 'bout'?" Reed's mimicry was a little startling. "The foreman was pissed – he was saying, "There's trouble, I told 'ya. The boss ain't satisfied. And now there's this fucking inquiry."

A different voice came out of the boy's mouth this time; Mac could swear he didn't even know he was doing it.

"Which inquiry? Did he mention a name?"

Reed shook his head, "Not while I was there, anyway. Just 'the fucking inquiry'." He blushed a little and glanced at Peyton.

"Okay. What else did you hear them say?" Mac probed. He knew there was at least one big thing Reed had kept from him.

Reed closed his eyes to better remember. "The foreman was really mad. He was talking about the next contracts coming up at the university, saying that some other company was 'horning in' on their territory. The company name was …" he frowned in concentration. "WMP? WMB? I couldn't really hear from where I was."

Peyton said, "Where did you hide, Reed? A trailer is pretty small."

Reed blushed again, "In the john," he admitted, adding a little toughness to his voice to hide how absolutely petrified he had been. "It was okay: there was a trapdoor in the roof, and I was behind the shower curtain," he added quickly.

Peyton closed her eyes in horror.

"Good thing they hadn't come in to use it. I'm surprised they only kidnapped you, Reed," Mac cut him no slack. "It was a criminally stupid thing to do. You know that, don't you?"

Reed looked down at his hands, but Mac caught the hint of teenage resentment on his face. After a moment, though, he looked up. "Yeah. I know. I do know, Mac. But I was in it before I knew what was happening, you know? I was making it up as I went on."

Mac nodded brusquely. He couldn't keep badgering the kid; it was over now, anyway. "What else did you hear?"

"They talked about keeping the other company 'in its place' – that's what the foreman said. 'Gotta keep the bastards in their place.' He told Tag to think of something, then laughed. 'Fire,' he said, 'Fire's always good.' Tag seemed to know what he was talking about, 'cause he laughed too." And those laughs which had no humour whatsoever in them had been proof to Reed that getting caught was not an option.

Mac frowned, thinking back over the past week to any mysterious fires.

"Mac," Peyton said, "The Weston-Myers-Powell fire. I had two bodies in the morgue."

Mac nodded. WMP – a small construction company, but rapidly growing. Maybe they had tried their strength too soon.

Reed looked from one face, expressionless, to the other, worry carefully banked behind concern, and swallowed hard. "Dead? Two?"

"A security guard who stayed to clear out the building, and the head of one of the departments. He'd been working late, got caught in the stairwell," Peyton answered slowly.

"Arson is already on it, I think, and Homicide. I'll tip Flack; his OCU will want to be involved." Mac spoke to Peyton, but kept his eyes on Reed. "There's more, isn't there?"

Reed sighed, "Yeah. I told you the one guy, Tag, said something about the Councilwoman?"

Mac nodded. "Something like, 'Don't worry, it'll come out right. The Councilwoman is in up to her eyeballs, and the Feds are in the game. We can't lose.' Like that?"

Reed grimaced with reluctant admiration at Mac's retentive memory. "Umm, something exactly like that!" Then he swallowed hard. "He said something else too. He said, 'Don't worry about Garrett. We'll take care of that little problem when the time comes.'"

Peyton sat forward and covered his hand comfortingly with hers, "And that's why you think your mother may be the one involved?"

Reed nodded, unable to speak.

Mac sat back, eyes narrowed, lost in thought. "I don't see it, Reed."

The boy looked at him, hope flaring in his eyes.

"If it was Miranda Garret they were talking about, they would have used her name the first time, don't you think? It sounds like he was talking about two different people."

Peyton nodded thoughtfully, "Yes, I think so. It would make sense to say 'the Councilwoman' and then 'she', or 'Garrett' and then 'she', but to split them like that …" her voice tailed off as Reed looked from one to the other, disbelief in his eyes. "What?"

"Do you always work things out like that?"

Mac frowned at him, "What do you mean?"

"Better detecting through grammatical analysis?" Reed answered dryly.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY

Hawkes rang the doorbell at Miriam and Kathleen's brownstone. It was a little late for a casual call, but he had to know that they were all safe, that they were together. Nasreen's shock and dismay still quivered inside him, like the lingering pain after a muscle spasm. He couldn't go home until he had checked on her.

It was Kathleen who came to the door, red hair pulled back into a loose ponytail, wearing comfortable sweats and slippers so old they were obviously kept for sentimental reasons. Her eyebrows rose when she saw who was at the door.

"Is Nasreen here?" He felt like a schoolboy, asking. Which was odd, as he had never really been a teenager. By the time most kids were leaving high school, he was already a second year med student.

"She's sleeping, I think, Sheldon," Kathleen's voice was perfectly cordial, although she didn't move out of the doorway. Sheldon could see past her into a small hallway with a door leading off one side, and a staircase going up on the other.

"No, I am not. It is fine, Kathleen. Thank you. Please, Dr. Hawkes, do come in." Nasreen stepped off the stairs and came towards the door. Kathleen shrugged uncertainly and left them together, moving through a door Hawkes assumed went to the kitchen.

She was dressed casually, like Kathleen, in a sweatshirt and jeans. The jeans were rolled at the ankle, and probably belonged to one of the other women. The sweatshirt, Hawkes recognized – he had a matching one in the back of his cupboard. It was Miriam's university sweatshirt from NYU with Pre-Med stencilled over the crest.

"You haven't been home?" Hawkes said, quietly, following her to the small sitting room at the front of the house.

"Miriam would not let me. She was worried; there has been … unpleasantness before." Nasreen moved to pull down the shades, keeping her back turned to Hawkes. Without even the light from the streets, the room was dark, with only a small light burning in the corner.

He remained standing, waiting for her to relax, watching her fidget around the room, her hand going unconsciously to her hair, fingers running through it before impatiently pushing it back from her face again and again. He was fascinated with the way it caught the light: amber, red, and silver threads through the rich black. It was heavy and slightly wavy, falling nearly to her waist, and he suddenly was aware that this was the first time he had seen her without a headscarf covering all but the subtle oval of her face.

"I should have called. You weren't prepared to see anyone," he said quietly.

She finally sat down, perching uncomfortably on the edge of a couch that was meant for leaning back and relaxing into. She looked up at him and he could see the sheen of unshed tears.

"I wanted to go home, but I was too afraid. That is the first time since … Amir's death that I am afraid of my neighbours."

Hawkes sat on a chair across the small room, trying to give her some space. "Have they threatened you?"

She shrugged impatiently, "It is not them. It is I. I am not comfortable here – suddenly. Unexpectedly. I find myself watching, wondering. Who will it be next time? Who will get hurt next time because of me?"

Hawkes wanted to move closer, to reach out and comfort her, but he stayed where he was. "Why do you think this was your fault? A few stupid boys making mischief? Some people too blind to look outside their old ways of thinking? How is this your fault?"

She looked at him bleakly, hands stroking through the ends of her hair again. "Do you know what the _hijab _is Dr. Hawkes?"

He frowned slightly, but did not correct her use of his title. If she needed to keep that distance, he would allow it for now. "The headscarf you wear? Isn't that called a _hijab_?"

She inclined her head, "Some people do call it that, yes. But the word is bigger than that: the headscarf is merely a symbol. _ Hijab _is really a term referring to a sense of modesty, to keeping one's privacy, and refers to both men and women. In the Koran, it was the man's responsibility to stay out of woman's space. Originally, the clothing – the _khimaar_, for example," Nasreen stroked a hand over her head unconsciously, and Hawkes could see the white headscarf that she usually wore in her movement, "Was merely a symbol of that way of thinking, a barrier separating the men from the women outside of the home."

She dropped her hands to her lap and Hawkes could see the beginnings of a flush across her cheeks, "I am sorry. I am lecturing."

"I'd like to know," Hawkes said gently. "Explain it to me."

Finally, Nasreen sat back, her hands relaxing. "My Muslim patients are mostly newer immigrants, from many places. They are comforted when they see me wearing the headscarf. But I only started to wear it when I was in my late 20s."

She was silent a moment, hands clenched tight in her lap. "After I married Amir."

Hawkes said nothing, allowing the silence to stretch between them until it was no longer fraught with the unspoken words, the unasked questions.

Finally, she started again, her voice soft and slow. "I grew up in Montreal. My family came from Persia – Iran – in the 70s, when the Shah was deposed. We are Muslim, but not particularly devout. Extremism of any sort was discouraged."

Hawkes relaxed a little as well he saw the hint of mischief return to Nasreen's eyes.

"Canadians, you see, do not trust excess." She smiled then, lips curving in memory, "Except perhaps to hockey."

"Ah, the Montreal Canadiens, right?" He tried to pronounce it with a French flip that surprised a giggle out of her.

"The second thing we learned when we came to Montreal – which team you support is much more important than what religion you are," she laughed.

"And what was the first thing you learned?"

"That snow is cold! It looked so soft and pure, but it burned when we picked it up in our hands. We arrived in January."

"How old were you?" Hawkes's voice was quiet and curious, and Nasreen relaxed even more as the conversation moved into sharing stories of their childhoods.

She did not even notice when Hawkes moved onto the couch beside her.

But he noticed when she finally called him Sheldon.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY

It was early. Too early for the phone call that woke them, propelling them from the bed where they had curled up together seeking warmth and comfort.

"Danny? Mac. We need to talk. You're not to come into the lab today, okay?"

Danny began to speak, to expostulate, but Mac spoke firmly, over-riding him, "Noon, Danny. At Sullivan's. Don't let Lindsay come."

That silenced Danny. He took a deep breath, said, "Noon, then," and closed his cell. Then he turned to Lindsay, who was looking worried. Again.

"Mac wants to see me at noon. He said you aren't to come." He had thought for a moment of making something up, but one look in her eyes and he knew he couldn't protect her by lying to her. He could only do that by telling her everything and trusting her to stick by him.

No matter how hard that was about to get.

_A/N: The information about hijab is accurate as far as I can determine. Though not Muslim, I am fascinated by the dichotomy of all women trying to live a life of faith in a world that is essentially uncomfortable with women's sense of self and inner power. For a truly new perspective on Islamic women, I recommend the following website, showing Amir Normandi's beautiful photo essay: No Veil is Required (replace the word 'dot' with a period to get to the website, as ff will not permit websites). __www__ dot Iranian dot com/Arts/2005/October/Normandi/6 dot html _


	39. Chapter 39: Consult

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY. Poetry not otherwise referenced is original._

_A/N: I apologize for the long wait before this update. I hope that it is worth it. Thanks to my friends who have supported and encouraged me/_

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

* * *

**_Waiting for a Sound_**

_Hanging on silence_

_Waiting for the words_

_Which fall like leaves_

_Like blows to the face_

_Like caresses over heated skin_

_Like the hurricane's blast_

_Like the whisper of wave on shore_

_The tornado's whip of energy_

_Hanging on the silence that lies_

_Between friends_

_Between lovers_

_Between brothers_

_Between parent and child_

_Hanging on the silence_

_That weights that world_

_Like gravity holding the universe in place._

* * *

**Chapter 39: Consult**

Danny showed up at Sullivan's a few minutes before noon. He stood in the doorway, blinking as his eyes adjusted from the light outside to the gloomy interior of the small diner. He could remember the first time he had met Mac here - the week Mac had asked him to join his team. Mac had beaten him then too, he thought, had already been sitting in the back booth, facing the door like any good Marine keeping watch on the escape routes.

This time, Mac was not looking at the door, waiting for him to arrive. Instead, he was staring into his coffee cup, turning it in 45-degree turns. Around and around he turned the cup, looking into it intently, as if, Danny thought, he was waiting for an answer to some question too big to ask.

"Mac?"

Danny sat down across the table, nodding at the waitress when she automatically dropped a cup of coffee in front of him.

"Seen Flack?" Mac didn't bother with a greeting.

"Naw. Something came up - Torres called him in. He phoned though. Said he was on his way as soon as he got free." Danny sat back and pushed his glasses up on his nose, clearing his throat uncomfortably.

"We'll wait." Mac looked down at his coffee cup again, and twisted it, one precise quarter-turn, then another.

Danny sighed and fidgeted, shifting on the banquette uneasily. He cleared his throat a few times, and took a quick sip of his coffee.

Finally, Mac said neutrally, "How is Lindsay?"

Danny cleared his throat again, "She's okay. She slept last night." Well, he silently amended, more of last night than other nights.

Mac nodded, "That's good."

Danny squirmed a little more, then suddenly said, "You know … we're together."

A small grin cracked Mac's impassivity, "Uh, yeah, Danny. We just about figured that out."

Danny flushed and fidgeted with his spoon. "Why aren't you…" he blurted out, then stopped. When Mac raised an eyebrow at him, he plunged on, "I thought you'd be against it. You know - office relationship and all? I mean, I know it's not prohibited, but I thought you'd … I don't know… disapprove?"

Mac stared back down at his coffee cup. If there was a smile in his eyes, Danny couldn't see it. For the first time since Danny had sat down, Mac lifted his cup to his lips and took a quick sip. "If I told you to, would you stop seeing her?"

Danny looked at his hands, then back at his boss, "Mac, I … don't think I could."

Mac looked him in the eyes, and there was no smile on his face. "Not even if it meant your job?"

Danny closed his eyes in agony. That was his worst-case scenario - right there. But the answer floated up as clear as glass, "Even if it meant my job."

Mac shrugged and took another sip of his coffee. "Then what's the point in my saying anything?"

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY

In spite of Danny's protestations, Lindsay had gone in to the lab that morning. Just because Mac wouldn't let Danny come in, and didn't want her to hear whatever conversation the boss wanted with his most troublesome employee didn't mean she couldn't put in the four hours she was restricted to. Adam would be grateful for her help, she knew.

She had been processing clothes from a hit and run for a few hours when her ring tone went off, pealing "Wild Montana Skies" through the lab to the smirking amusement of a couple of techs. She ignored them, quickly checking to see which family member was calling her in the middle of the week.

"John? It's great to hear from you. Why are you calling?" She paled a little as her older brother's patient voice answered her.

"Shit. John, is that really what day it is? Are you at the airport now? I'm so sorry …. Oh, you're still at the Washington airport. Hey, I am not forgetful! Not usually anyway. Things have been a little … no, Danny is _not _softening my brain. He's good … wonderful, in fact." Her voice softened as a smile flooded her face. Then she flushed. "I do _not _go goo-goo eyed when I talk about him. Shut up or I won't come and pick you up from the airport and then you'll have to face New York cabbies."

Stella had come into the processing lab, and was listening with unabashed curiosity. Lindsay smiled at her and said into the phone, "John? Could you hold on a minute?" She covered the receiver with a hand and said urgently, "Stel, could you drive me to the airport in about an hour to pick up John? I'm not supposed to drive yet." She rolled her eyes in frustration, but smiled when Stella nodded.

"Okay, John; we're all set. Stella Bonasera and I will pick you up in a little over two hours. How much luggage are you carrying?" This was obviously a family joke, as she giggled at her brother's growling response.

"Have a good flight."

She snapped her phone shut and smiled at Stella. "Thanks. I would hate to sicc him on a cabbie."

"No problem," Stella answered. "Let's pick up lunch first - you about done here?"

"I have a few tests left to complete - give me fifteen minutes, okay?"

Stella nodded again and went to post her results before booking out. If she timed this right, she could make sure Lindsay went home with John and did not come back to the lab until the next morning. Although she looked better than she had since she had returned from Montana, Lindsay's eyes were still heavy and tired looking; Stella wanted her to take it easy. Maybe having her brother around would make that possible.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY

Before Danny could answer Mac's question, Flack came through the door and sat down beside Mac across from Danny. Not for the first time, Danny felt a chill of panic. It wasn't often than Flack squared off against him. If he was being double-teamed by Mac and Flack, he might as well surrender right now and save the inevitable beating.

"So, what's up?" He tried for bravado, but his voice barely made it above breathy.

"We've been hearing rumours, Danny," Mac started.

"And more than rumours," Flack interjected, his voice grim.

"Things we need to tell you." Mac cleared his throat. "Just know that none of this is easy for anyone, okay?"

"If we could have dealt with it, man, we would have." Flack said. "But it is … bigger than we expected."

"So let's start with some stuff you might have missed while you were gone." Mac began.

Flack explained his new position heading up the Organized Crime Unit. "It's temporary," he said firmly. "Gerard just wants the name. I'll get replaced soon enough."

Mac glanced at him, a little surprised, "What makes you think that, Flack? I haven't heard anything."

Flack shrugged, "I was given the job because of my dad." He took in a deep breath and said in a rush, "And seeing as my dad is dying of cancer and not expected to live past the month…" That was as far as his voice got before his throat closed up.

Danny looked up in shock. Don's father? Sick? Dying? He shook his head. It wasn't possible. It couldn't be possible. There were worlds you could not imagine without certain people, and the NYPD without Lt. Don Flack Sr. was one of those worlds.

One look at Don's white face, teeth clamped over his lip, was enough to convince Danny it was true.

"Don," he started, then hesitated when Flack put up one hand to stop him. He shook his head and went on, "I'm sorry, man. I had no idea. I am so sorry."

Mac, who was sitting beside Flack, put a hand on his shoulder. "Is there anything you need, Don? Anything we can do for Dora or your sisters?"

Flack took in a deep breath and shook his head. "I'll be back in a second," he muttered, and disappeared into the back, where the washrooms were.

Mac and Danny looked at each other testingly. The waitress filled both coffee cups and vaguely muttered something about food. They both shook their heads, and she wandered off.

"You didn't know?" Danny said, skeptically. Rumours should have been flying around, and Mac was usually good at deciphering solid ones from nonsense.

Mac was frowning, twisting his cup in sharp quarter-turns again. Danny wanted to take the cup and smash it against a wall. He clenched his hands.

"I hadn't heard a thing." Mac sat back with a sigh and rubbed his hand across his face. "I don't how I could have missed that. There are plenty retired guys around to listen to."

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY

Waiting for Lindsay to meet her in the lobby, Stella bit her bottom lip and glanced at her watch again. By now Mac and Danny would both be on their way to Sullivan's. Although she hoped Flack was on his way as well, she knew he had been called into interrogation on two separate cases; Captain Torres was trying to empty his case load before Flack went over to the Organized Crime Unit completely. Stella sighed; Don hadn't slept the night before, she knew. After talking to Tony for hours, he had walked, he told her, before showing up at her place again at six in the morning, apologetic and exhausted.

She rubbed her forehead, trying to hold back the headache. She hadn't slept either, waiting for him to call or knock on her door. She had tried to hide that from him, though. When Mac had called Flack's cell phone and she had seen the blank, pained look in his eyes, she had struggled against an unreasoning anger at Mac. She knew that was unfair; he was doing the only thing possible. But the whole situation was coming perilously close to being too hard.

"Ready to go, Stel?"

"You want to pick something up, or just eat at the airport?"

"Let's go to the airport - there are lots of places to eat there, and then we don't need to worry about finding parking in a hurry."

The two women walked down the hallway together, talking casually about the plans that Lindsay had made for keeping her brother entertained. That kept the conversation going until they got to the car, at which point Lindsay turned to her boss and said firmly, "Okay, Stella, spill. What did Mac and Don need to talk to Danny about? And why was I not allowed to be a part of it?"

"I don't know." Stella put her hand up to her temple where she could feel a vein throbbing and rubbed it hard again. "I really don't. There is something about Danny and his family; it has to do with Reed being kidnapped and Mouse trying to sell Don info…" Her eyes suddenly got wide with suppressed excitement. "Lindsay," she said slowly, "What would you think about dropping John at your apartment and then going to interview someone with me?"

"Would it help Danny?"

"It might. I have to be honest. It might make thing worse. And I know they want to keep us out of things, and I can only assume that is for our protection…" Stella's fierce frown was matched by Lindsay's exclamation of disgust.

"I don't need protection - I need answers," the younger woman grumbled. "And Danny and Don, even Mac, can't keep me out of this one. He came and supported me - he didn't care about the risks. And it cost him - nearly cost him everything. I'm not letting him do this on his own."

"We don't even know what is going on," Stella cautioned. "We should maybe keep out of it until we do." Her voice ended on a questioning note, though, and she looked at Lindsay for confirmation.

Lindsay shook her head firmly. "If you have an idea let's follow up on it. If we learn nothing, we don't have to tell them anything. But if we find out something that could help, I think we need to do this."

Stella bit her lip as she negotiated the traffic into La Guardia. "Okay. We'll pick up John and take him to your apartment. Then we are going to go see Mouse Mauser's grandfather."

Lindsay opened her mouth to ask a question, but shut it again as Stella swooped through the parking lot to steal a space out from under the nose of a confused and anxious family man from Iowa. Lindsay watched sympathetically as his wife scolded him for losing the space: "And to a woman too!" she heard her say dismissively.

Lindsay hid a smirk behind her hand when Stella pulled out the police lights and stuck them on top of the car. "Keeps me from having to pay for parking," she shrugged in response to Lindsay's quizzical look.

Lindsay giggled again as the driver turned to his wife in triumph. "See, she's a cop! Maybe it's a terrorist attack…" she heard him loudly speculate.

Stella had the grace to look a little abashed.

"John's flight will arrive in forty minutes; do we have time for food?" Lindsay said, as they swung through the crowds of frazzled travelers wondering which way to go next.

Stella headed to the food court and steered Lindsay towards the sushi bar.

"Raw fish? I don't know, Stella," Lindsay objected.

"There are other things. And you're not going to tell me that a girl who eats spiders has a problem with a little raw fish?" Stella joked as they stood in line.

"At least my spiders were deep-fried. Put enough batter on nearly anything and I can choke it down," Lindsay laughed as she tentatively reached for an assortment of rolls.

Stella handed her a plate of tempura vegetables, and one of tuna sashimi. "Well, batter up," she said solemnly.


	40. Chapter 40: Endurance

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY. Poetry not otherwise referenced is original._

_A/N: Continued thanks go out to those who are still traveling this long road with me. If you have written to me in the past few weeks, and I have not answered, please accept my apologies – life has been 'interesting' (using that word to mean borderline awful). I owe so many of you messages, but I am trying to get back on track._

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

* * *

_**Seismic Upheaval**_

_Grounded: meaning being in touch or centred_

_Feet firmly planted on the ground_

_Solidly based in reality,_

_Rejecting the fanciful or strange._

_Knowing what is real and true _

_And what is mere dream, _

_Fantasy, phantasm._

_The earth remains beneath the feet_

_Season in and season out._

_Until far beneath the surface_

_Earth's core, trapped _

_By the unrelenting weight of matter_

_Revolts against its confinement_

_And flings itself desperately up and out._

_And the fixed and stable earth_

_Shudders beneath suddenly uncertain feet,_

_And all that has been constant_

_Disappears._

* * *

Chapter 40: Endurance

Flack slid back in beside Mac, a damp sheen on the sides of his pale face, but composed once again. "Dad's illness was fast," he said quietly in response to the older man's awkward concern. "And he only let us tell a couple of old friends. Strictly on the q.t."

"Don…" Danny tried again, but gave up this time, waving his hand uselessly in the air. "Stella know?"

Flack nodded, "Took her last night. He asked to see her."

Danny just nodded.

"Look, Danny, that's part of it - my dad I mean. But there's lots more shit we have to tell you. So just hang tough if you can, okay? We don't want to tell you this stuff any more than you're going to want to hear, but we gotta. There's too much crap flying right now."

"Lindsay? Is she okay? She's not involved?" His head came up and panicked blue eyes ripped through Mac, who shook his head slowly.

"Not yet. Not that we know about."

"Just me? Just me … and my family, is that it?' Danny sat back. All the open concern and worry for his friends that had been apparent on his face only a moment ago was wiped off his face, and he showed them the cool confidence of a street kid caught dead to rights who was sure his connections would get him a free pass.

He'd been here too many times before.

Mac nodded this time. "Danny, I told you I would keep you in as long as I can. But we have too many things going on now to know what to keep you in and what to keep you out of."

He took a sip of coffee and grimaced before adding sugar. "So, I'm going to tell you everything I can. Let's see if you can help us figure any of it out. And if you shouldn't have been told, or something I've told you gets out …" he raised his hand as Danny started to protest, "Then you and I go down together. Got it?"

Danny swallowed hard. Mac wasn't just offering to trust him. He was offering to stand by him no matter what. It was a huge weight to carry, and Danny unconsciously straightened up. Mac nodded approvingly and waved to Flack to start.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY

Stella grabbed the tray with their tuna sashimi and California rolls to a table by the windows to watch the planes coming in. Lindsay sighed a little as an Alaskan flight left for the West.

"Are you okay?" Stella said, chopsticks poised above wasabi and soy sauce.

"Just a little homesick, I guess," Lindsay admitted slowly. She looked at Stella, worried. "Which is weird seeing as I just was at home and all I could think was how much I wanted to be back here."

Stella shook her head firmly, "Not weird at all. How were things in Montana?"

"Pretty lousy," Lindsay admitted, her eyes on the table, picking nervously at some grains of rice as they fell out of the rolls.

"How have things been here?"

"Kind of strained and awkward."

"So why wouldn't you feel that things would be better if you were with your family in a place you knew well and lots of friends and support?" Stella completed the thought. "Feelings are feelings, Linds. They aren't supposed to look like logic. Don't worry about feeling homesick sometimes. I still sometimes think I should have followed Sister Mary Theresa's advice and become a nun." She plopped a slab of raw fish in her mouth and giggled at Lindsay's big eyes.

"You? A nun?"

"Don't sound so shocked! I was a Catholic orphanage girl, after all! Sister thought with a little discipline I could have become a good nun." Stella's eyes darkened, although her voice remained calm and light.

Lindsay looked Stella over and raised her eyebrows. "I don't know, Stella. Not much fashionista potential in the convent."

Stella agreed gloomily, "It was the shoes that were the deal-breaker - no heels allowed!"

The flight from Washington was announced and the two women made their way to the baggage pickup.

"Peanut!"

Stella stepped back as Lindsay was enveloped by a big man whose strength was evident in the effortless way he lifted the petite woman off her feet, and whose care was evident in the way he avoided hurting her. When he looked up, Stella recognized the steady brown eyes and firm mouth that had spoken to the team on the webcam when they were sharing information about the cold case in Montana, the one that had turned hot enough to nearly destroy the team.

"John, this is Stella Bonasera. Stella, John Monroe." Lindsay performed the introductions half hidden in her brother's arms.

Danny was right, Stella thought: they grew them big in Montana. "I'm pleased to meet you, John. Thanks for your help before; it made all the difference."

The hand that stretched out enveloped hers in a restrained handshake. "Detective. I can't tell you how much we appreciated what the team did for Lindsay. We would have been too late without the support from NYPD."

Stella smiled, "On Mac Taylor's behalf, I'll give those sentiments right back at you, Special Agent. We couldn't do without Messer and Monroe."

"Okay, okay," Lindsay grumbled, "Butt-kissing is all done. You're all heroes. I don't know… seems to me Danny and I did all the work. We certainly did all the bleeding!"

Stella looked at Lindsay in pleased surprise. That was the first time she had heard any lightness in Lindsay's voice when talking about the Montana experience. She grinned at John Monroe over Lindsay's head.

"Aaannnd, she's back!" she thought to herself.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY

Danny sipped coffee he couldn't taste and fought a desperate urge for a cigarette, although he'd quit back when being a ball player made him cool enough not to need the James Dean look.

Don sat, slightly hunched over his coffee cup, exhaustion pouring out of him like a blues song from a New Orleans café.

"Okay. When I went out to tell your parents about you being in Montana, Mouse Mauser caught up to me," he started. "He told me that there was another Sassone brother, an older one, who was a Fed with a different last name. Ring any bells?"

Danny frowned, "Naw, I never heard that. Sassone family was always good for a story or two, you know, but that's new to me."

Flack nodded, "Me too. But when I talked to Mouse later, he said even Sassones don't know about this one. Not Sonny's generation, that is."

"This kid supposed to be Lorenzo's? Who's the mother?" Danny sat back, musing.

Mac cleared his throat and glanced sideways at Flack.

Flack sighed and said, "Rumour - and it's just rumour, Danny - says one Maureen Riley." He flicked a glance at Danny.

Danny could feel the colour drain from his face. His first thought was, "Hell, no!" His second was, "So that's it." But underlying those conscious thoughts was the sound of his mother screaming, and his father cursing her in Italian. No little boy, he thought, should know the meaning of the word _puttana _or _zozzona_. His grandmother had refused to tell him what they meant, but there were lots of older boys in the neighbourhood happy to educate him about his mother the whore, the slut.

_No little boy should hide under the bed at night waiting to find out who would come into his bedroom - the weeping, battered woman who would coax him out, wrap her arms around him, and cry; or the screaming virago who would drag him out by one arm and strike him in the face until his ears rang._

"Danny?" It was Mac's voice that brought him back.

Deliberately, he searched for that toughness which had saved him on the street more than once. "What do you want me to tell you? That it's true?"

He couldn't look at Don, see the compassion in his eyes. He focused on a spot on the wall between their heads: these two men who were closer to him than his own family. This felt like a betrayal of everything they had ever meant to him.

They sat in silence for several minutes. There seemed to be no way to continue.

"Mouse had a few other things to say." Mac decided to start the discussion in a different direction. "Evidently Gino is trying to infiltrate the university market. According to Mouse, Tag was killed because he screwed something up."

"And you think it might be Reed that he screwed up? Kidnapping him was a mistake?" Danny started searching his pockets for something, his eyes still guarded.

Mac reviewed the information Reed had come up with, glossing over the fact that the kid had broken into private property to get it. Judging by the frown on Flack's face, the information had been stored away for another day.

"So, Gino is using his usual charming tricks to make sure he controls construction at Chelsea," Danny grunted. "Not particularly new, though he's never gone to these lengths before. What does he want there?"

"And how far does it go? According to what Reed overheard, there's at least one Councilwoman on the payroll."

"And Reed's afraid it's his mother," Mac added slowly, his eyes on Flack.

"Naw, she's in the clear," Flack said absently, "She's been asked to head up the inquiry into Organized Crime specifically in the construction trades - that info will go public next week when the mayor and Gerard do their big unveiling of the Master Plan."

Flack may have been heading up the Task Force, but his dismissive tone left no one in any doubt about his feelings towards the politicians who would make their names and reputations on his team's hard and dangerous work.

Mac sat back with a sigh of relief, "I hoped that was it. Why the hell couldn't she just tell us that?"

Flack shrugged, "Ms. Garrett likes the limelight, but not the security needs that go along with it. Gerard is keeping her name under wraps until she'll agree to protection for all of them."

"I think she'll agree now," Mac said with a hint of anger under his smooth voice.

Flack nodded, "Could have saved Reed a couple of uncomfortable nights."

This time the silence was a bit easier between them.

Danny finally found what he had been looking for in his pockets. "Here," he said, thrusting a piece of paper across the table.

It was the list of connections he had started the night before.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY

"So, John, other than checking up on the kid here, you have any plans for being in the big city?" Stella asked as they walked to the car.

"I have to check in with my office; they are putting me in a new department." Monroe walked like a Fed, Stella thought, all intense focus. People automatically moved out of his way and he seemed to take it as his due.

"Not again? How many changes does this make in the last three years, John?" Lindsay said in surprise. Her brother rarely talked about work to the family, but his constantly changing locations could hardly be missed. "Does this mean you are going to be based in New York?"

He smiled at the excitement in her voice, but shook his head. "No, still Quantico, I'm afraid. But I'll be up here more often, liaising with NYPD's new Organized Crime Unit. The one headed up by your buddy, Detective Flack," he said to Stella with a smile.

She smiled back, "He'll be glad for the support, I'm sure."

John threw back his head and laughed. "Not if he's like every other cop in the world! He won't thank me for stepping on his territory. But I have some expertise and info to share, so he'll get it whether he likes it or not."

He looked into Stella's strained face and said a little more gently, "Don't worry. I won't have to force-feed him. What I got, he'll want, trust me."

Stella nodded briskly. Don was a big boy. He could look after himself and his team even now, her head coached her heart. Even with the strain he was under.

Lindsay stepped between them, a little protectively. "How long will you be here, John?"

He grinned down at her, perfectly aware of what she was doing. "About a week, I guess. We'll see what happens. Messer got tickets to the game?"

Lindsay nodded, "Cup playoffs. Danny's a little upset about having to root for Buffalo."

John laughed and the conversation remained light until they got to Stella's car and stowed his gear in the trunk.

Stella said casually, "We'll drop you at Lindsay's place, John. We have an appointment."

John slid into the front passenger seat, finding to his surprise that the seat was far back enough to accommodate his long legs. "This something official?"

Stella looked at Lindsay in the rear view mirror, an action John caught out of the corner of his eye. Lindsay shrugged and said calmly, "Not exactly. Just a line of inquiry we are following up on."

John twisted around in his seat and stared Lindsay down. "Peanut, when you go all official on your big brother, I know you're lying. What's going on?"

Stella opened her mouth to put John off, but before she could, everything came pouring out Lindsay in a flood of self-recriminatory panic. Stella settled back in the driver's seat and headed out to contend with gridlock in downtown New York; by the time they got anywhere, she thought, Lindsay would have finished.

John sat listening calmly to his sister's confused concern over Danny and the various things that had happened in the few days since she had returned from Montana, but noticed that she quickly began to pull things together as an investigator, connecting Reed's kidnapping to the Messer Construction company and Taglia's death effortlessly, for example.

Evidence without context be damned; Lindsay knew there was something wrong with Gino Messer, and probably with Nikki as well. Danny's reaction to his cousin's phone call had told her that.

Stella added a few things as they sat in mid-afternoon traffic, telling both Monroes the bare facts of Lieutenant Flack's illness, for example, and the highlights of Flack's interview with the malodorous Mouse. "So we are going to talk to his source: Gunter Mauser," she finished. "According to his grandson, he is leaking information as he loses his grip. Hopefully we can shake something loose in his memory, something that will tie a few things together."

Lindsay said, "John, is it really possible for a person with connections like a Sassone to be a Federal agent? Aren't there all kinds of background checks for security clearance and things?"

"Unto the second and third generations," John agreed absently, musing on the information the two detectives had dumped on his lap. "I nearly got turned down because of Uncle Harry."

"Harry Fredricks? Mom's cousin?"

John nodded.

Stella looked at the siblings sharing a smile. "What was wrong with Uncle Harry?"

"He was a draft dodger in the '60s. Left Montana and ran to British Columbia, Canada. Lives in some little valley in the middle of the mountains with a bunch of other old hippies." John's voice was only a little mocking; Diane Monroe still mourned the loss of a brother and three cousins in Vietnam every Memorial Day.

"He sends us honey," Lindsay volunteered, "From his own hives. They live off the land and off grid as much as possible."

Stella looked around her: the traffic was barely moving, horns were honking, drivers were yelling, singing, eating, and even putting on makeup in their cars. There were bike messengers and pedestrians weaving through the stalled cars, billboards blinking their messages of over-consumption and consumer greed, and the smell of food wafting through the early spring air from street vendors and small restaurants open 24 hours to indulge the city's constant appetite.

She sighed contentedly. Off-grid? No thank you!


	41. Chapter 41: Endeavours

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY. Poetry not otherwise referenced is original._

_A/N: Thanks as always to the readers and reviewers: without you this little world would simply stop dead (and I don't think the characters would like that!)_

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

* * *

_**Flareback**_

_Sweet brown skin heats under the hand._

_Lips that had turned from drinking in all that life offers_

_Soften and warm under his kisses, driving all thought _

_Under, driving all desire to the surface._

_Delighting in passion's flavour on the tongue,_

_The scent of arousal awakens the tearing need to touch_

_And be touched, to take and to offer all that rests – _

_Warm and vital and breathing – in the palm of the hand._

_But a moment, a sound, is all it takes to break the spell,_

_One breath between surrender and resistance,_

_One heartbeat, pounding like an avalanche_

_Between submission and withdrawal._

_Icy bronze skin, turned metal-cold with loss,_

_Lips turn to stone as warmth is withdrawn._

_Craving turns bitter on the tongue_

_As touch cools and hardens into the comforting trap_

_Of life abandoned, not a life of abandon._

_SMT2007_

* * *

**Chapter 41: Endeavours**

Hawkes woke slowly, aware of stiffened muscles before anything else, then of a warm weight curled up beside him. He blinked in the dim light, trying to figure out where he was, but not moving. He didn't want to disturb the sleeping woman beside him.

Because even half-asleep, cramped and sore, hungry enough to hear his own stomach rumbling and with the need to find a washroom becoming pressingly obvious, he knew that it was Nasreen lying on the couch, tucked under his arm, her breath fanning across his throat, the scent of her warm and tantalizing. He could feel the blanket someone had thrown over the pair of them; obviously Miriam and Kathleen would not be surprised by his presence this morning.

He could smell coffee in near proximity, and everything in him yearned towards it. But he could not move without waking Nasreen, and one look at the bruises under her eyes told him she had not had enough sleep yet. He tried to shift a little bit to ease his back muscles, and she murmured and stirred, so he subsided quickly and gave himself up to being uncomfortable.

They had talked for hours sitting in the small living room Kathleen had led him into. It had taken her nearly an hour to relax around him, to sit beside him on the couch and not tense up every time he moved. It seemed to take hours before she could call him Sheldon, holding him in his place with the formal Dr. Hawkes until the house had stilled in the deep heart of night. When her eyes had finally begun to close with exhaustion, he had coaxed her into lying down with him on the couch, and when tears had leaked under closed eyelids, he had felt the dampness on his shoulder.

He ran a careful hand through her hair, conscious of the silky weight of it wrapping around his hand. He knew that a Muslim woman uncovered her hair only in front of men she could not marry, like brothers or uncles, or the man she intended to marry. It was a symbol of intimacy that meant more than could be easily put into words, and Sheldon had no idea how to interpret it in the cold light of morning.

His hand stilled when Nasreen stirred again, and he looked into deep brown eyes still blurred in dreams. Without planning, without even thinking about it, Sheldon moved his head and took her inviting lips in a soft kiss.

A moment's touch; a lifetime's vow. It was sweet and tender, with the promise of passion. It struck through his body like a flame and left him scorched from the inside out.

She pulled away, startled, eyes huge, just as a voice spoke from the other side of the closed door. "Nasreen? There is a phone call for you."

Flushed and distressed, Nasreen tried to move from the couch, but found it difficult to untangle herself from both the blanket and Hawkes quickly. Breathlessly, she answered, "_Oui_. Yes. _Un moment, s'il vous plait._"

Courteously, Hawkes moved so that she could get to her feet, and waited until she had scrambled her way out the room, avoiding looking at him. Then he put his head in his hands and berated himself for being seven kinds of fool.

He stayed in the room for a few minutes longer before going out to take care of the most pressing need, and then searching for coffee. When he found the large country-style kitchen at the back of the house, only Miriam was sitting at the scarred and homely table, a cup of coffee in front of an empty chair, with a little milk already added, and Sheldon was sure, one careful spoonful of sugar as well. Miriam had always been good at the small details.

Without speaking, he took his place and closed his eyes as that first slug of caffeine worked its way through his veins. Miriam pushed a plate with whole wheat toast his way, and waited until he had picked up a slice before speaking. "Everything okay?"

He could not look at her. "No."

"Can I help?"

"No."

"Can I give you a little advice?"

"Can I stop you?" he said dryly.

She cracked a smile at that, and sat back in her chair easily. "No."

"Then advise away." He crunched the toast noisily.

"She's Muslim, Hawkes."

"I _know _that. Dammit, Miriam. I didn't mean for any of this to happen."

"I know. And I know that you _think _you know about her background. But whether we want to admit it or not, Muslims in America had two choices after 9/11: to become invisible – less Muslim – or to become more Muslim, and invisible in a different way."

She waited for him to respond, but he simply looked down at his coffee cup and said nothing.

With a sigh, she went on, "I first met Nasreen when she and Amir moved to New York. I was working as an advisor with him on a UN project. He was a lovely man." She grinned a little as he flashed her an inquisitive look. "Hey, I may be vegetarian, but that doesn't mean I can't enjoy the smell of a nicely cooked piece of meat on occasion!"

Hawkes snorted through his coffee, then ran his hand over his face wearily. "So, tell me about Amir."

"He was dedicated and kind," she went on remorselessly. "He had come to North America from Iran as a university student, and met Nasreen in pre-med at McGill. They were married six months later. Both families over the moon, of course, especially hers. She grew up moderate; he grew up devout. She was the one who changed, naturally." She saw the flash in Hawkes' eyes and sighed, "No, Shel, he didn't force her into anything. I'd feel better about it all if he had, maybe. She just wanted to please him, to be perfect for him. They were truly devoted to each other. It was … sweet. Almost childlike."

She paused and drank some coffee, then went on unsteadily, "The night the towers were hit, you remember what the city was like. People wandering around, trying to figure out what had happened, people trying to help others. And some, a few, like always … vultures and jackals, every one of them." She rubbed her eyes. "Amir couldn't get a cab. He'd been at Ground Zero, trying to help. It was … difficult. We talked to a friend who had been with him, a doctor from Pakistan. People were scared, and … unfriendly. Not everyone, of course. But a few. Amir had to walk home, and he … never made it."

She stood and walked restlessly to the sink, rinsing out her cup and placing it in the dishwasher, every motion controlled with an effort. "He was shot outside their house. Drive by. He was almost home, Shel. They shot him as she watched out the window." She took a deep breath, "Nasreen didn't even hear from the police for days. And then they told her there was nothing to go on. The case is still open."

Hawkes rubbed his long fingers over tired eyes, trying desperately to find a measure of calm. "So why are you telling me this?"

Miriam turned and leaned against the sink, arms crossed over her chest, staring him in the eyes. "She's not going to be … able to be with you, Shel. She may want to – I think she does, whether she admits it yet or not – but she can't. It would destroy everything she is, everything she has fought to be since Amir's death. A good doctor, a good Muslim, a good widow. There is little room in her life for you, and you deserve better than that."

Hawkes stood and followed Miriam's example, rinsing his cup and putting it in the dishwasher. He leaned over and kissed her lightly on the cheek. "She kissed me back, Miriam. It will take more than you saying so to make me step back now."

He turned to leave the kitchen, pausing when her voice drifted across the room, "You could destroy her."

"I won't hurt her." He grinned tightly over his shoulder, "First do no harm, right?" He walked quietly out of the room and went to wait in the front hall to say good-bye to Nasreen.

Miriam turned away. "Too late," she murmured.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY

Stella sat and tapped the steering wheel impatiently while John and Lindsay squabbled about whether or not John was going to go with them to visit Gunther Mauser in the seniors' home he had been living in for nearly twelve years. So this was what having family was like, she mused. Maybe growing up in a succession of foster care homes and an orphanage was not so bad after all!

"All right, you two, that's enough. John, I don't know why you are so interested. This may not get us anywhere, or it might get us into very deep trouble. But Lindsay, your brother is a trained investigator, just like you, and he might hear something we miss. So I say we maximize our assets and take him with us. And _don't_ stick your tongue out at me, young lady!" She glared at Lindsay through the rear-view window.

John did a poor job of hiding his smirk, looking out the window. Suddenly, he opened his door and stepped out into the blocked street, "Don't move, Stella. I'll be right back!"

She stared after his rapidly disappearing figure in some shock. "Where does he think I am going to go?" she fumed, waving her hand at the traffic which looked set in stone for the next millennium.

Lindsay sulked in the back seat.

By the time John had run across the street, ducked into a corner grocery, and run across three lanes of traffic to jump back into the front seat, Stella had managed to gain less than a block.

"That's it," she huffed, glancing over her shoulder to check where they were. "Come on – we're taking this off-road." She shot a hard look at John, who was envisioning mud trails and four-wheelers. "What are you up to?"

He patted his jacket pocket, "Just a little persuasion."

It still took nearly forty minutes to get across town, but as Stella weaved and manipulated her way through the traffic, she gave John a quick lesson in the complicated history of the family Lindsay was getting herself involved in. Lindsay, meanwhile, refused to speak to either of them.

John looked at her over his shoulder, obviously struggling not to say anything about the Messer family background.

"Shut up, John," she said impatiently.

"I didn't say anything," he protested half-heartedly.

"You don't need to. I can hear what you are thinking from here. And not only is it not true – Danny is as straight as they come, in every sense of that word – but it is irrelevant. Even if I was hooking up with a wise guy whose connections went back to Marlon Brando himself, it wouldn't be any of your business," she fumed.

"Corleone," John said, automatically.

"What?"

"Don Corleone. Brando was the actor; Corleone was the Don, the Godfather," he explained seriously.

"Are you kidding me?" Her voice rose as she prepared to do battle.

"Okay, you two. That's enough!" Stella had had it. For the first time in her life, she honestly did not regret her sibling-less status. "We're here. And could you two _please_ attempt some sort of professional decorum?"

Chastened, Lindsay murmured an apology. John simply grinned, then asked, "Game plan?"

"We go in, we ask to talk to Mauser, we get whatever he can remember. No explanations, no lies. I'll lay you odds they won't even notice we're there," Stella said, the memories of numerous mandated trips to visit "our loyal and lonely senior parishioners in the home" swirling through her head.

It turned out she was exactly right; the nurse at the desk did not even look up when they asked to see Gunter Mauser, simply pointing to the sunroom at the end of the long dingy corridor, continuing her conversation on the phone with a local morgue that was refusing to pick up a body. Lindsay shuddered.

"Mr. Mauser? Gunter Mauser?" Lindsay stepped in front of John and Stella, determined not to be pushed to the background. Damn it all, this was her future she was fighting for.

"_Ja? _ I am Gunter Mauser?" A man shuffled over to the trio, balancing a cup of coffee and a plate with a huge slice of coffee cake on top of a walker, which he picked up and moved inch by inch until he had made it to one of the loungers in the corner of the large room.

Lindsay looked around. There were several chairs grouped around the room, some near tables, others around the large-screen television in the corner. A few people were already seated; others were lined up to get their own cups of coffee or a slice of cake.

Mauser sat down heavily, his coffee slopping over the cup into the saucer as he did. "Damn," he said absently, as he picked up the cake in round stubby fingers and took an enthusiastic bite. "Do I know you?" he asked around the crumbs that flew from his mouth.

Stella sat down in a nearby chair. "We know your grandson," she had to think quickly to remember Mouse's given name, "Theo. He told us you knew lots of history, stories from the old days."

Mauser's forehead creased, "You're friends of Mouse? Funny, you all look like cops. Except for you," he looked at John, "You stink of Fed."

John leaned back against a table, amusement filling his eyes, although he did not smile. "You should have known better, Bonasera," he said coolly. "A man like Mr. Mauser isn't going to fall for that 'friend of the family' trick. Nothing wrong with his memory or smarts, I'm thinking."

The old man grinned toothlessly up at the tall agent, stuffing another piece of cake into his mouth and speaking around it, "My idiot grandson thinks he's smart. Hah! I've forgotten more than he'll ever pick up. It's the drugs, you know," he confided in Lindsay's direction. "Addles the brain. Hard to keep a thought in your head other than the need for more."

Lindsay nodded and sat back. "Mr. Mauser, of course you are right. We are NYPD, from the Crime Lab, and he's a Fed." She jerked her head at her brother. "We need more information than Mouse was able to give us. So we decided to come to the source. Obviously, if we want to know what was going on in the 1960s, we need to talk to someone who was there, someone who knew all the players."

It wasn't even particularly subtle flattery, but it seemed to do the trick. Mauser took a sip of his coffee, smacked his lips, and said, "Well, now, in the old days, nothing came free, _liebling_. What are you offering for my help, eh?"

Lindsay looked with a hint of panic at Stella who shrugged and John, who tapped his breast pocket and raised his eyebrows.

Mauser licked his lips and sat forward, "Now, G-man, what could you have of any interest to me?"

John pulled a bottle out from inside his jacket, and slipped it in the outside pocket. "A promise – you help us out, and I might just forget this when I leave."

The old man's eyes brightened, and he sat back, blowing on his coffee as if it were suddenly too hot to drink. "Sure could use a little cooler in this cup here," he said invitingly.

John grinned, and poured a slug of amber whiskey into the cup.

"Ahh," Mauser sighed and smacked his lips. "Well, young sir, for payment like that, let's see what you want."

Stella took over, after frowning at John for sneaking alcohol in, then at herself for not thinking of it. "Mr. Mauser, we need to know about Lorenzo Sassone and Maureen Riley."


	42. Chapter 42: History Lesson

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY. Poetry not otherwise referenced is original._

_A/N: As always, thanks to readers and reviewers, and especially to those of you who are keeping me going. A special thanks to JuliaB, who corrected the German errors – this chapter has been re-posted with the correct expressions now._

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_**Sitting on a Fence**_

_Sitting in the sun waiting for a sign_

_Waiting for a sign that the world is still turning_

_Thought I'd worked it out, thought everything was fine _

_Then you turned it 'round and suddenly my heart is burning_

'_Cause you took me for a ride and let me spin out of control_

_You left me hanging in the air with my feet a'flailing_

_You took me on the Inter-state and made me pay the toll_

_Coaxed me up the tower and pushed me over the railing_

_So I'm sitting in the sun and waiting for an omen_

_Ravens circle above my head and call my name_

_War's been declared and I'm in battle-mode again_

_And nothing I had planned is the same._

_SMT2007_

Chapter 42

"Mac!" Sid greeted the investigator as he walked into the morgue.

"You paged, Sid?" And called him out of one of the most difficult conversations he had ever been involved in. He didn't know whether to thank Sid or blame him for everything that could go wrong now.

"Sorry, Mac. But I needed you to see this body."

Mac glanced at the case file. "Why? This isn't one of mine, is it?" No matter how tired he had ever been, he had never forgotten a body before, at least not while the case was still open.

"Not yet, no," Sid said grimly. He pulled back the cover and showed Mac the grisly remains of a male corpse that had been burned nearly beyond recognition. Mac covered his nose; even in the morgue, which was designed to circulate the air to keep odour under control, this body reeked.

"That gasoline?"

Sid nodded his head. "Tied up and set on fire. Victim, in his mid-thirties, died when he aspirated the heated air – breathing it into his bronchial system. Dead over 72 hours."

"He was alive when he was set on fire?" Mac said, looking over the chart.

"Briefly, yes," Sid said, taking his glasses off his nose and hooking them back together around his neck. He leaned on the table and looked at Mac carefully. "He was beaten first." He pointed to the x-rays on the lighted viewbox. "Broken mandible and zygomatic bones: jaw and cheek. Typical injuries for anyone taking repeated shots to the head."

"So far, nothing that pops for me, Sid. Why did you call me down?" Mac thought about the stack of files on his desk that he had not yet signed off on; Sid better not trying to palm something else off on him.

In answer, Sid rolled the body, careful to keep it from falling apart like over-cooked meat. "Look."

On the shoulder, where the body had been slightly protected by thick woolen clothing, could be seen a tattoo Mac and Sid both recognized.

Tanglewood.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY

Adam was whistling as he moved computer to computer, running air particle tests, running fingerprints through AFIS, running ballistics results through CODIS. When he had to wait on results, he would play air drums along with the music playing in his head, recreating an entire rock symphony in the lab.

"Adam. Adam!" The voice that broke into his happy place was not the least happy, and Adam dropped the pencils he had been using as virtual drumsticks and spun around in his chair so fast he overshot and ended up in the same place he had started out.

"Yes, sir." He snapped out, inching himself around to face his boss.

Mac sighed. "Adam, don't call me sir. I need the DNA results from that burn victim sooner than possible – yesterday is too late. And where is everyone? I can't find a single investigator on shift."

"Umm, Danny didn't come in today, Lindsay was here this morning but left at lunch, Stella went with her, Hawkes isn't in until the afternoon shift, and Jillian Penn is in the break room, sir. I mean, Mac," Adam corrected himself when he saw the long-suffering grimace.

Mac grunted and flipped open the file Adam had handed him while reciting the whereabouts of the various team members. Frowning, he turned to take the results back to his office, then glanced over his shoulder at the young tech. "Good job, Adam. Carry on. And if it's a jazz beat in that bridge, you need a little more high hat, a little less bass drum." He grinned as he left the room, aware of Adam's dawning smile.

Adam scooted his chair to his personal computer over in the corner. Now that everyone was back, he was circumspect about being on IM, although most people did it to some extent. Nothing froze Adam's blood like that look on Mac's face though, the one that radiated disapproval and disappointment, and Adam would do nearly anything to keep from causing it. So he double-checked that all the machines were working away quietly before expanding the screen and clicking on the IM window.

**Islngrl: bin w8ting 4vr!**

**gEkskod: sry – boss**

**Islngrl: we on 4 2nIt?**

**gEkskod:-) **

**Islngrl: 10?**

**gEkskod: where?**

**Islngrl: pick u up at wrk?**

Adam stopped for a second. At work? Where people could see her with him? Aisha was willing to do that? He had to swallow before hitting **send** on his casual reply.

**gEkskod: ok – at 10.**

**Islngrl: xoxoxo**

Aisha signed off, and Adam minimized the screen again. His hands were shaking a little. They had only had coffee the night before, then spent three hours on chat together. That conversation had become a little more … intimate than he had expected, and he was pretty sure Aisha was prepared to finish what they had started.

He glanced at the clock, and sighed. Only 6 hours, four tests, and three case files to go, as well as two missing co-workers to deal with.

In the mean time: jazz beat!

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY

"Lorenzo Sassone? I don't know nothing about the Sassones, girlie. Not to tell, anyway." Mauser sat back in his chair, and waggled his cup suggestively. "A'course, the memory ain't what it used to be. A little grease never goes amiss."

With a roll of his eyes, John tipped another generous amount of whiskey into the coffee, and Mauser took a swig. "Ah, that goes down a treat. Now, who was you asking about?"

"Lorenzo Sassone and Maureen Riley. Do you remember them?" Stella asked patiently.

"Well, Lorenzo a'course. His family came over from Italy between the wars, set up on Staten Island. Fingers in every pie for a while. Hooked up with the Bonnano family, but not adverse to playing around. Or trying to move in on someone else, if need be." He paused to take another sip.

"Now Riley – that's another breed of cat altogether. The Westies – there was a lieutenant in the Westies called Riley – Jimmy? Jamie? Something like that anyway."

He saw Lindsay's slightly confused look, and explained to her, "Bonnanos are one of the Big Five, _Liebling. _The Italian Mafia – old-style. Sassones hooked up with them early on. But the Westies – they're Irish, and bad with it. They weren't called that back in the day, of course. Just a gang of Irish lads with quick fists and an eye to the main chance then. Maureen, though. That's not a name I remember."

"As if you would," a voice scoffed from behind the couch. "She was too young for you even then, you old goat!"

Mauser rolled his eyes, "Shut up, altes Weib. Like you'd know anything about it. Knee deep in Windeln und Scheiße, you were."

A tiny woman moved slowly into sight. She was smaller than Lindsay by nearly half a foot, and her hands on her walker were gnarled and curled around themselves. Her feet were swollen in loose slippers, and she shuffled impatiently across the floor.

But her eyes snapped with a force that seemed too big to be easily contained. She flung her head up with a snort, "At least the shit was on my hands and not in my head. Stupid old man. Maureen Riley? You remember? All that trouble she caused? The war in '68? Or was it '69?"

Mauser nodded vaguely, "Oh yeah. Was that her? I thought it was some Italian _dirne._"

"Mother's family was three generations from Italy, though to hear Mary Katherine talk, you'd think they were related to the Pope himself," the old woman tossed at him before turning to John and giving him a gracious smile, bright white dentures taking on a lively gleam all their own. "If you want to know anything, ask someone who remembers having been there, why don't you?"

With a quick glance at Lindsay, Stella sat forward and beamed out a smile of her own. "We'd love to know more, Mrs …?"

"Ms!" The woman sat herself down in a chair beside Mauser, who huffed and crossed his arms. "I believe in the emancipation of women," she announced firmly, digging an angular elbow into the old man's ribs when he muttered under his breath. "Ms Ethel Mergetz."

"Your Hermann would be spinning in his grave to hear you talk," Mauser grumbled.

"My Hermann has been spinning in his grave for near enough forty years; he better be used to it by now," she retorted. "Now, before I tell all I know…"

"Which won't take long," interjected Mauser, grinning with delight at the dig.

She regally ignored him, "Why am I telling you this, my dear?"

She stared Lindsay in the eyes, and discomfited, the detective looked down. "I need to know, Ms. Mergetz." She looked up and started to say more, but the old woman put her hand out and patted Lindsay's arm comfortingly.

"You need to know, I'll tell." She looked up at John with a twinkle, "But just a little coffee with a sweetener would make it easier!"

He laughed and went to stand in line for another cup of coffee, which he "sweetened" from his flask as he brought it back and ceremoniously handed it to the old woman.

"Ms Mergetz, I would be very pleased to get you coffee any time you ask!"

"They do grow them big out where you come from, don't they, my boy?" she said inquisitively.

He answered with a hint of drawl in his voice, "Montana, ma'am."

Stella sat back with a hint of amusement in her eyes. If John could charm the old lady, the old man was obviously her assignment. "Perhaps if you both told us what you know," she smiled at the disgruntled Mauser, leaning forward a little, "We could get a complete picture of what things were like back then. Mr. Mauser, you were around then?"

He nodded, only a little mollified by her attention, "I've always been around, girlie."

Ethel nodded her head, "True. We were around through it all. My Hermann owned a café: they all came to drink the coffee and eat my pastries. Best _Gebäck_ and _Strudel_ going," she said to John.

"So Maureen Riley? You knew her?" Lindsay jumped in. She was trying to be patient, but the thought of what Danny was going through was too much.

"The Rileys? Yes, I knew them. They were lace-curtain Irish, dear. And smug with it." The old woman shook her head. "Pride goeth before a fall, the Good Book says, and it certainly did for Mary Katherine Riley, let me tell you."

"Mary Katherine? Maureen's … mother?" Lindsay hazarded a guess. Danny had never spoken to her about his family except for Louie.

"Thought she was a cut above the rest of the neighbourhood, she did," Ethel's eyes snapped again in derision. "Six boys she had, and only the one girl. You'd think she could keep an eye on her. But with all those mouths to feed, and her man strong-arming the business for Spillane…"

"Mickey Spillane?" John asked, a little confused.

Mauser nodded, "Michael Spillane. Not the writer, boy. The gang leader."

"Of the Westies, was it?"

Mauser nodded again, "Although they weren't called that until later. Some clever-dick detective in the PD with an eye to public relations came up with that some time in the 70s. They ran Hell's Kitchen, connected to the Gambino family when they needed to be."

"And Jamie Riley, Maureen's father, was an enforcer?" John clarified.

"For Spillane's gang. One of the best, he was. Some punk took him out in the '80s – he's in a wheelchair now. Still runs a racket, but doesn't have the power he did once." Mauser looked down at his own legs, now wasted and near powerless under their plaid blanket.

"And Maureen?" Lindsay prompted.

Ethel took up the story, "She was a pretty little thing, you know. Black Irish mixed with Italian: blue eyes and dark hair. Could have posed for one of those Madonnas – at least on the surface. She had a fire to her, though, even when she was young. A wild girl, she was. Well, she could hardly help it – youngest of all those boys. They let her follow them around – wherever the Riley lads were, Mo was sure to be found."

"How did she get involved with Lorenzo?" Stella asked.

"You know – met at a local dance hall – eyes caught across the room – cue violins and slow motion photography," Ethel said cynically. "It was all a bit inevitable. Romeo and Juliet, d'you see. The families – Bonnanos and Gambinos, that is – were in the middle of a turf war." She shook her head, not unkindly. "And Lorenzo was love's young dream. Twenty-one to her sixteen, tall and cocksure. '66, maybe? '68? My five were still in school, I know that." She wrinkled her forehead, trying to remember, then waved a dismissive hand.

"And what happened?" Stella said.

Ethel sighed, "What always happened. Mo got knocked up. Lorenzo refused to step up – he was sent away to Sicily. Came back a few years later with a wife – proper little madam she was too. Mo was sent away in disgrace, came back with a flat belly and a bad attitude."

Lindsay asked quietly, "What happened to the baby?"

Ethel shook her head, "Mo would have gone to one of those Catholic homes for unwed mothers, I'm sure. Mary Katherine would want whatever blessings she could put on the event. There were lots of those places here in the city, but she left town, I know that. Don't know after that; put it up for adoption if it lived, I suppose." She shrugged casually. As she said, it happened.

"Jamie Riley shot Lorenzo," Mauser volunteered. "There was a big turf war going on – fighting in all the corners of the city. Bonnanos, Luccheses, and the Irish mob, while the rest sat back and waited to pick at the bones. Riley ambushed Lorenzo, shot him in the back."

"But didn't kill him, cripple him?" John said, offering another small shot of whiskey.

"Naw," the old man tipped his glass in John's direction. "Riley was under the Irish curse – nearly missed him altogether. Sent him to hospital for a few days though. Threatened to do more if he didn't step up and do the right thing."

"But the Sassones had no interest in a poor Irish girl. They wanted better things for Lorenzo," Ethel added. "As soon as he was out of hospital, he was on a boat back to the homeland."

"Sent him back to the grandparents, straighten him out," agreed Mauser.

"And Maureen? When she came back? What happened to her then?" Stella asked.

Ethel looked uncomfortably at Mauser, then out the window. "I don't know about that. It's not like I knew these people, you know, my dear. One simply heard the rumours, talked to people who knew. The Rileys lived in Hell's Kitchen with the rest of the Irish. My Hermann's café was in the Garment district."

Lindsay looked at Stella with a question in her eyes. Ethel hadn't seemed too concerned about class divisions a minute ago. Now she seemed nervous and watchful. What had happened?

_**PS: Happy birthday, marialisa!**_


	43. Chapter 43: Reaching Out

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY. Poetry not otherwise referenced is original._

_A/N: I appreciate all those of you who have taken some time to comment or respond to my story, and all those who are following along. Thanks to the wenches for the encouragement. _

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

* * *

_**Tell me a Story**_

_Tell me where we came from, tell me where we are bound._

_Tell me how we got here, to this place in time and space._

_Tell me why we do this day after day and year beyond year._

_Tell me when it is my turn to feel the fresh air_

_Run its fingers through my hair._

**_I can only tell you what I believe._**

**_I can only tell you why I am still here in this place_**

**_Clinging to the moments of clarity._**

**_I am here to make a difference._**

**_I am here to be my best._**

**_I am here to do what I do._**

**_I may not make that difference_**

**_I may fail and let even myself down._**

**_What I do may not be enough._**

**_But it is all I can come up with._**

_Our stories are all told, our future is unknown_

_I'm not sure where here is, and both time and space circle around me._

_Day after day and year after year and life after life_

_Sacrifice themselves to the greater good._

_And the air grows stale and cold._

_SMT2007_

Chapter 43: Reaching Out

If he had been a different type of person, Hawkes might have slammed out of the neat little house in a quiet neighbourhood in Queens. He might have stood on the sidewalk, yelling her name until she came to the door to talk to him. He might have hung around kicking stones across the street until she finally left the house to go to work. If he had been a different type of person – a different type of man – he thought gloomily, he would have made sure that Nasreen did not shut herself off from him, that she face him and talk about what was happening like a rational adult.

But instead, after waiting twenty minutes, Hawkes had grabbed his coat from the front hall where Kathleen O'Conal had hung it up the night before, and walked out of the house. Closing the door quietly, he started down the street with his hands dug deep into his pockets against the early spring air that still held a chill reminder of winter.

He walked nearly two blocks before he remembered he had driven the night before, and had to trudge back to where he had left the car.

He couldn't keep his hands from shaking. Even on the wheel of the car, they trembled slightly. The physician in him wanted to blame Miriam Beniamin's coffee, but it had been perfect; he was not suffering from a caffeine overdose, no matter how much he wished he could blame everything on that.

No, he was shaken, that was all it was. As simple and profound as that. One touch of her mouth under his and the whole world had turned upside down.

And now what? Nasreen had been quite clear – the fact that she would not come down to say goodbye to him was not an action requiring much interpretation. Miriam's voice echoed in his head, _"She's a Muslim – a good doctor, a good Muslim, a good doctor – truly devoted – almost childlike…"_

It had not been a child he had held in his arms for that brief moment, not a child who had opened her mouth to his, pressed her body against his for a single breath, no more.

"So what?" he asked himself, the slight mockery he reserved for himself evident. "She can't be Muslim and be with you. Miriam is right; this is not just a church she goes to – this is a way of living and seeing the world. Can you really stand in front of her and say, 'Pick me over all that?'"

He thought of his brave words to Miriam, _"__It will take more than you saying so to make me step back now." _So cocky, so arrogant. As if all he had to do was want, and be given.

But Miriam was right, and he was wrong. He could do only harm to Nasreen, by forcing her to choose, by putting her in the position where there was even a choice required of her.

He laughed mirthlessly. "So what if the earth moved? Plant your feet on the ground, Hawkes, and roll with this one."

He picked up his phone, and dialed a familiar number absently. "Hi Lissa," he said, infusing even more warmth than usual into his voice. "Are you feeling better?"

He listened for a moment, focusing on her and the road with equal concentration. "You up for a visit? My shift doesn't start until 3 o'clock today." He glanced at his watch to check the time and was surprised to see that it was still early; he felt as if he had lived a lifetime in the past hour.

As he hung up and turned a corner to drive to Lissa's apartment, he thought about work, about the hospital, about Lissa and the fun they always had together. He thought about the little _frisson _of excitement they had seemed to share when they were out for dinner – a hitherto unnoticed attraction that might be worth exploring now that they were no longer depending on each other for more practical support, as they had through med school, he thought.

But he could smell a sweet spicy scent like carnation on his skin, and feel the touch of soft lips on his.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY

"Mac?" Reed said cautiously, poking his head around the door. "Do you have a minute?"

Mac pulled his hand down over his face, trying desperately to push the exhaustion away for a few more minutes. He was going have to book out and sleep sometime, or he was going to be the one who started making mistakes. He spun around in his chair and resolutely turned his back to the window; he had been staring at the Bridge, but seeing the Towers coming down, the plane burying itself in the building like a bullet into a body. His usual tricks for avoiding that barren vision had not worked today.

"Come in, Reed. What do you need?"

Reed sidled in and perched on a chair uncomfortably. Without thinking about it, Mac moved around to the front of his desk, sitting on the edge of it with one foot in the air. Any member of his team could have told Reed Mac was trying to make him feel more at ease.

It didn't seem to work. Reed backed up in the chair, but sat stiffly, his hands under him, his arms rigidly supporting part of his weight.

"What's up, Reed?" Mac gentled his voice even more. Something had gone seriously wrong with the boy.

"I'm being followed," the young man blurted out, then turned his face away.

Mac paused a moment, then nodded seriously. "Have you seen the person following you?" he asked.

Reed shook his head, "No. Not really. Natalie thought she saw someone a day or so ago – young guy, dressed in black. But she's really nervous, Mac." He glanced up at the older man, inviting him to dismiss the fear as a young woman's paranoid fancy. "Ever since I was … taken. She thinks that someone is after me; she sees things all the time."

"So, if you think this is just Natalie panicking, why are you here?" Mac asked.

"Because today I saw him too," the young man sighed and his arms lost their rigidity as he slumped in the chair. "A young guy, wearing black, just like she said. In the Commons at Chelsea. So I tried to lose him, you know. I mean, he could just be a student, I thought, going to the same places I was. But everywhere I went, he'd show up sooner or later." Reed closed his eyes.

"What did he look like? Did you recognize him? Hear him talk? See him near a vehicle?" Mac tried to keep his voice from sharpening into interrogation mode, but could tell he had failed when Reed shied like a nervous horse.

"He was just a guy, Mac. Tall. Well, taller than me, but that isn't saying much," Reed qualified deprecatingly. He closed his eyes to 'see' better. "Dark brown hair, kind of long. Down to his shoulders anyway. He wasn't near a car any of the times I saw him, but the first time, he was coming from the direction of Parking Lot 51E. I guess he could have a car."

"Did he speak to you? To anyone around you?"

Reed shook his head firmly. "He was never close to me. Always at least a city block away. I wouldn't have even noticed, except that Nat has made me kind of paranoid too. I didn't notice him at first, but Nat said he had been watching me when she and I met up for breakfast. When she pointed him out to me, it was after lunch. Then when I saw him again outside of the library at 4:00 this afternoon… "

"Taller than me?" Mac persisted. "Taller than your dad?"

Reed shook his head again, frustrated. "I don't know. He seemed tall to me."

"Reed, you haven't been talking? Or writing? About Messer or the construction company? Nothing on-line, even to friends?" Mac deliberately kept his voice quiet, but Reed still flinched in response before opening those big blue eyes that cut through Mac.

"No. No, I haven't done anything. I haven't talked to anyone but Natalie, and my dad, and …" his eyes widened even more, and now Mac could see the real fear beneath it all, "My mom, but she wouldn't, Mac. She wouldn't do anything …" his voice faded into panicked breathing.

Mac dropped off the desk to kneel in front of the distressed boy. He put a gentle hand on his shoulder and said urgently, "She didn't. Reed, it isn't what you're thinking. Your mother isn't connected. She's been asked to head up the inquiry into organized crime and its inroads into the construction trades. So, yes, she's involved, but not the way you think. Come on, Reed. If you had seen her when you were taken…" Mac cursed under his breath. Why the _hell_ had Miranda not just told her son and husband what was going on?

"I told you, Reed. When we were talking with Peyton. I told you it wasn't her." He said it quietly, pouring all the conviction he could into his voice.

And when a shaking Reed collapsed against him, this time he was ready, putting his arms around his stepson and patting his back soothingly.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY

Mac had been called away, leaving Flack and Danny sitting a little uncomfortably at the booth, not sure what to say or do next. Flack wanted to go home and sleep until the last trump, but that wasn't looking likely. Besides the work piled up on his desk, he still had something he had to say to Danny. He just hadn't been able to say it in front of Mac. He'd done enough damage there.

"Can I give you a lift?" He pulled a few bills out of his wallet and tossed them down on the table, not knowing Mac had paid on his way out.

Danny shook his head, then shrugged. "Don't know where I'm going. Mac didn't want me to come into the lab today." He was withdrawn and too pale; Flack privately thought he needed to be at home at least. The hospital was looking a safer bet.

"Your place, then?"

Danny pulled out his phone and looked at it, a concerned frown on his face. "No messages. I thought Linds was going to call me when she picked up John at the airport. I wonder if something went wrong?"

"Probably a late flight. I wouldn't worry. Maybe they just got carried away, and forgot." Flack's keen eyes did not miss the slightly insulted look on Danny's face at the thought he had been forgotten for a mere brother, but it only took a moment for the look to clear.

"I'm just going to call her," he muttered, and hit speed dial.

Flack shrugged and stood up, rubbing his face wearily. "Come on, Messer. I'll drop you at your place."

Danny nodded, still frowning slightly as Lindsay's phone picked up and went to voice mail. "Montana? Everything okay? Give me a call, wouldja?" He snapped the phone shut, irritated. "Guess no one needs me today. Take me to the lab?"

Flack shook his head firmly, "No way. If Mac said you're not to go in, I'm not having any part of it, buddy. I'll pick my battles and that is not one." He led the way to his car, and waited patiently while Danny checked his phone one more time.

They drove in silence for several minutes, before getting behind a fender-bender that left them sitting in traffic while the beat cops sorted things out.

Danny cleared his throat, "Don, I just wanted to say … about your dad."

Flack recoiled a little, then perceptibly relaxed. "Yeah."

"If there's anything you need, you know… anything I can do." Danny shifted uncomfortably, but persisted. "Does he want … visitors? Need anything?"

Flack shot him a surprised look. Danny Messer, sick room attendant was a new side to a man he thought he knew pretty well. "Yeah, maybe. Thanks. Let me ask him, okay? The only people going to see him right now are us and a couple of old friends – guys who retired before him, mostly. He doesn't want lots of people standing around talking about him like he's on his deathbed." He swallowed hard, and then said strongly, "Even though that's the truth."

Danny nodded. "How's he dealing?"

Flack shook his head. "I don't know. He almost seems okay about it. Like he wouldn't talk about any treatment. And he had his damn funeral all planned out. I talked to Tony yesterday." Was it only yesterday?

"You and Tony okay?" Danny asked carefully.

Flack gave a short bitter laugh. "It was like watching a man walk a tightrope. He was doing the priest thing – you know, all caring and shit – but he was still so mad at me for questioning him. And maybe for taking down Antonelli."

Danny nodded; it was a dance he was familiar with in many variations. "You'll be okay. You have history. It stands."

Flack sighed. Speaking of history. "Look, my dad has been talking. He told me some shit. Danny, I think your mother …" He rubbed his eyes with an unsteady hand. Bad enough to know it, but to have to say it was nearly too much.

He took a deep breath and said, "Your mother and my father had an affair." He kept his gaze focused on the road in front of him, cool cop eyes taking in information without bothering to process it.

Danny nodded. "Yeah."

Flack froze, and looked up slowly to meet Danny's ice-blue eyes boring into him. "What do you mean - yeah? You knew?"

Danny nodded again, "When you went to tell my parents I was in hospital the first time, after Sonny and his boys jumped me. My mom recognized you."

Flack grimaced. He knew he looked like his dad. It had led to a few uncomfortable moments on the street when he started.

Danny went on quietly, "When I told my parents I was going into forensic sciences, going to be a cop, she told me then." Over and over, like beating him with a stick he could never quite avoid.

"We're not related, ya' know," he hastened to reassure the detective, his accent thickening. "Ya' musta been little, 'cause I was like 5."

Flack glanced into Danny's anxious face and actually laughed. "You think the thing worrying me most is that I might be related to you?"

Danny sat back and grinned a little weakly. "Well, I thought you might be worried about the family tree."

Flack shook his head, but had to search for words. "My dad said your family is full of screw-ups."

Danny nodded brusquely, staring blindly out the window.

"I told him you're better than all the rest of them put together. The only thing they all did right."

Danny blinked hard to clear the gathering moisture from his eyes. He really needed more sleep, he thought.


	44. Chapter 44: What I Choose to See

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY. Poetry not otherwise referenced is original._

_A/N: A new season (great opening episode) and this story is finally coming to an end. But not quite yet._

_Thanks as always to those who have encouraged me to keep going; I appreciate it more than I can say._

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

_**  
**_

_Letting Go_

_The wisps of memory curl tightly around the heart_

_An intricate web of tightly spun sensation:_

_Scent and cry, touch of breath and slap of hand,_

_The infinite variety of instants, big and small._

_How to break that spell spun of moments too quick to distinguish?_

_How to separate the pant of desire from the gasp of fear,_

_The flaring of passion from the fire of hatred?_

_Can you hold only the times of peace and happiness, _

_And loosen the bonds enough to let all else blow away _

_On the winds of all-forgiving time?_

_If you let all the hurt go, all the darkness, grief, and misery,_

_It would be like shutting out the night, illuminating the sky_

_With the restless glare of midday, the unceasing burn of the sun._

_Without the shadows, the light becomes unbearable._

_Without the light, the darkness overwhelms._

_What goes first?_

_The joy?_

_Or the pain?_

_SMT2007 _

**Chapter 44: What I Choose to See**

_**  
**_

John Monroe stood up and stretched, then jerked his head at old man Mauser. "You want to take me on a tour of the place?" he invited. "I may have a little contribution to make to the amenities in your room." His hand hovered over his pocket suggestively.

Mauser struggled to his feet and began to shuffle his way out of the room, his eagerness speeding his pace a little. John looked back at Stella and nodded briefly, sure that she would pick up the ball.

Stella watched the old man, shrunken and tired, moving with dogged determination, followed by the tall agent. Then she turned to Ethel and said bluntly, "What gives?"

Ethel blinked and looked down at her coffee cup. "I'm sure I don't know what you are talking about, my dear."

"Ms Mergetz, you had more information about Maureen Riley than her own grandmother a moment ago. Then you suddenly go all shy on us? I'm not buying it. What happened after Lorenzo? What happened to her after she came back without the baby?" Stella was remorseless, staring into Ethel's eyes.

The old woman took in a deep breath. "You have to understand. Things were different then. This was - what? '68? '69? All that free love and letting it all hang out was still in California, not in Hell's Kitchen. Not in New York. Well, not in our neighbourhood." Ethel's slightly scatty persona had retreated, and Lindsay, watching carefully, could see even her face had sharpened to match her eyes.

"Maureen got caught. Well, it happened, no one is saying any different. Many a family tree had its start over the fence in the next-door neighbour's yard, so to speak. Truth be told, hardly a first baby was born in the neighbourhood who didn't come a little earlier than decorum would indicate." She raised her eyebrows at the two younger women, silently gauging whether or not they caught her drift.

Stella nodded, and after a moment, Lindsay did too.

"Everyone would have forgotten about it soon enough, placed most of the blame of Lorenzo anyway. But Maureen? Well, she was no shrinking violet. No sackcloth and ashes for her. The first time she went to church after coming home, she was wearing lipstick. Red lipstick."

The shock of that moment still thrilled through the woman's voice. "Well, I mean to say! Most girls in that situation at least had the decency to pretend to feel some remorse. Not Maureen." She shook her head, then laughed bleakly, "I heard tell, although of course I wasn't there to see it myself, that when the galekh, Father Antonelli, preached on loose morals and the Whore of Babylon, Maureen stood up and walked out of the church. Bold as brass, she was."

Stella and Lindsay shared a shocked look: Father Antonelli? Stella shook her head slightly – they would have to pursue that line later.

Lindsay sat forward a little, "Ms Mergetz, do you know anything about her marriage? Why Anthony Messer? Where did they meet?"

Ethel looked at her a little pityingly, "I doubt they met more than five times before the wedding day, my dear. Anthony's brother was making a name for himself by then. You know he's connected to the Luccheses?" She waited until the two detectives nodded. "Well, Gino had come here as a young boy – just in his teens. Anthony joined him a few years later, once Gino had found a place for himself. Gino married into the wise guys as much as anything – let's see, was she a Distasi? A D'Agostina?"

She pondered a moment, then shook her head. "Doesn't matter – a niece or cousin or something of one of the bosses' wives." She shrugged at the convoluted family trees of a Mob family, then held out her coffee cup to Lindsay. "Would you mind, my dear? This is thirsty work."

She waited until Lindsay had moved out of earshot, and leaned forward to say quietly to Stella, "How much should she know? I can see that none of this is going to surprise you, but she really does look like she just fell off the turnip truck. Can she handle it?"

Stella watched Lindsay steadily pour coffee, smiling at an older man who tossed some admiring comment at her.

"She's going to need to know whatever you can tell her, Ms Mergetz. This may be her future we're talking about."

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY

Hawkes arrived at Lissa's only a few minutes after hanging up, and as she buzzed him in, he felt a sense of peace envelop him, a sense which only increased as he rode up in the elevator and arrived at her apartment door, carefully holding two cups of coffee and a couple of danishes from a small coffee shop around the corner they used to frequent in the early mornings after pulling all night shifts.

"You are a life-saver, Shel," she grinned as he handed her the steaming coffee. "I've haven't even put on the first pot yet this morning." She was dressed in an oversized t-shirt and yoga pants, hair pulled back off her face, her eyes dark and tired.

Hawkes kissed her on the cheek and presented her with the pastry bag, "Lemon for you, cream cheese for me."

She turned and led the way into the bright kitchen, now filled with the morning light. Hawkes had sat in this room all times of the day and night, but he loved it best like this – the sun shining in through bright yellow curtains, painting the white walls with a gentle wash of colour, touches of blue gleaming on every surface. He hadn't been around her place for nearly four years if she was right in her calculations, but it hadn't changed in any of the important ways.

Lissa curled up on the window-seat, cupping her coffee cup in her hand and breathing in the rich scent with a sigh.

"Oh, I needed that – how did you know?" She looked at him, big eyes laughing over the rim of the cup and he waited for the leap of his heart, vaguely disquieted when it didn't come.

"Just a guess. How are you feeling? You all over whatever it was a couple days ago?" He sat back in the kitchen chair with a sigh and put his feet up on the old box still full of vinyl records she kept by the table for that purpose.

"I'm good. Sorry about the other night – you know those headaches you get after too much?"

"Too much what?" Hawkes said, watching her.

She rubbed her forehead a little fretfully, "Oh, too much everything. Too much pain, too much misery, too much noise, too much to do." She lifted the cup to her lips again and took a deep drink, then grinned and held her cup up in a mocking salute, "Too much of this stuff!"

She drank again, looking out the window, her voice dragging a little. "Just too much. Paperwork, patients, HMOs. Administrators." The last word was hissed out through clenched teeth, and Hawkes hid a smile. Lissa had never been very good at manipulating the bean-counters, although she did well with everyone else. He had seen her talk down a patient coming off a psychotic episode; he had seen her talk her way out of a clearly-deserved traffic ticket. He had seen her talk a hysterical teenager into at least seeing her new-born baby before signing the adoption papers; he had seen her blow off an over-enthusiastic would-be suitor in three well-placed words.

He had never, in all the time he had known her, seen her at a loss. Not like now.

"Lissa, talk to me," Hawkes said gently, glad to push his own worries behind him and focus on hers.

Lissa rubbed her forehead again, and sighed. "I don't think I can, Shel. Not because I don't trust you," she said hurriedly. "You know I do. But it's not just my story to tell. And I don't know how much I can tell you without betraying someone else's confidence."

Hawkes watched her bite into the danish he had brought, licking the impossibly yellow lemon filling off her lips with a bright pink tongue. He waited until she had swallowed before saying, "Are you involved in something illegal?"

To his dismay, she didn't respond immediately, frowning at the pastry in her hand, idly running a finger through the white icing, then licking her finger before putting the rest of the pastry back in the bag and drinking from the cup again.

"It depends." Her voice was clipped, and he recognized the tone: a blow-off was in the wind.

"On what? How can it depend? Either something is legal or it's not, Lis." He tried to say it patiently.

"You see, that's why I can't talk to you about this, Shel. You are so black and white – no greys in your POV. How can you deal with your world when you see everything so simply?" She ran a hand restlessly through her braids in their bundled pony-tail. "It may not be illegal exactly. It may be, technically. I think it is the right thing to do. Does that count at all? Not all laws are good laws, Shel. You of all people should know that."

Hawkes closed his eyes. They had been here before: civil rights, abortion, the war on drugs, the war on terror. Of course he didn't defend all laws, but he had sworn to uphold them. It was an oath he took as seriously as he did the Hippocratic Oath he had quoted at Miriam only an hour or so ago, "First do no harm."

And breaking the law harmed everyone. He had to believe that, too, or everything he stood for in his life was a lie.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY

After spending several moments trying to calm his stepson down, Mac had finally resorted to phoning Peter Garrett and asking him to come and pick up Reed from the lab. Before Garret showed up, he put into place a few measures that he thought should have been done long ago, to hell with Miranda Garrett's preferences.

He had assigned uniforms to patrol the Garretts' neighbourhood, and then had given in to his own nerves and requested a plain-clothes officer be assigned to the family. It had taken some pretty fancy stepping to get that one past the ever-budget conscious Gerrard, but one mention that his prestigious new Organized Crime Unit may lose its biggest supporter on the city council if anything happened to a member of the Garrett family was enough to change his tune.

He would deal with Ms. Garrett later, he promised himself. He still had the crime scene photos of Reed taken after they had found him in the warehouse, and he would have no compunction this time about showing them to the boy's mother in order to convince her that the danger to Reed was real.

After a few minutes' thought, he put in a new request to have Natalie Chance watched as well. If they were watching Reed, they would know about her, and Mac was pretty sure whoever 'they' were, they would use any means necessary to get their way.

He sat back in his chair and swung around to stare out the window a moment, blinking his eyes to clear the vision of the World Trade Centre. It had stopped working – that trick he had developed to avoid seeing what was no longer there. He wondered now, as he had wondered earlier, what the departmental shrinks would say about that deliberate blindness he had somehow created years ago.

And what they would say now.

_Slowly his eyes closed and he could feel himself drowning, breathing heavily as if running. He could see the collapsing Towers, smell the dust and smoke and chemicals that had filled the air as they had gone down, falling in on themselves like a house of cards, taking hundreds, thousands of people with them. _

_He grunted and moved his head, as if to avoid the figure he saw coming towards him: short and energetic, sun-kissed curls and blue eyes, drifting just ahead of the smoke, but those sweet features, that smile that seemed to light up just for him, glowing and concerned, hands reaching out to him._

_He knew he was dreaming. He knew Claire was dead. But for a moment, he held out a hand to her anyway, longing to know it was not true._

_"Mac."_

_He could hear her voice as if she stood beside him, could nearly feel the breath of her on his cheek, almost smell her scent wafting through the air._

_He knew he was dreaming. He knew Claire was dead. But for a moment, his hand clung to hers anyway, longing to know it had not happened._

_"Reed."_

_"I'll look after him, Claire. I'll keep him safe."_

_He could see her smile as she accepted his vow, feel the pressure of her hand clasping his, taste the brush of her lips on his._

_He knew he was dreaming. He knew Claire was dead. But for a moment, he kissed her, knowing it was the last time._

"Mac. Mac? Darling, are you all right?"

And he opened his eyes with a gasp as if he were breaching the ocean's depths, to look into seagreen eyes that were flooded with fear and tenderness, and before he opened his mouth this time, he bit his tongue and did not say the name that lingered on his lips.

Instead, he pushed his chair back a few inches to avoid stepping on the woman kneeling in front of his chair, noticing he had swung back to the office and was no longer facing the window. He scrubbed unsteady hands over his face and walked towards the glass, staring out at the Brooklyn Bridge, and seeing nothing on the horizon.

**  
**_**  
**_


	45. Chapter 45: Observer Changes

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY. Poetry not otherwise referenced is original._

_A/N: Thanks to all who are reading, reviewing and enjoying this story. I hope you'll stick with me a little while longer. _

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

* * *

_**The Shadow**_

_It stands deep, sunk in the absences of light_

_Melted into the places where nothing exists._

_It has no substance, moves no dust as it travels_

_At the speed of dark._

_A measured pace. _

_When the eye searches, it cannot be seen_

_Light absorbed into shade,_

_Ghosting into dim reminiscence._

_When the eye turns away_

_It speeds past like the spider on the floor,_

_A mere shade of momentary disquiet_

_A breath of disturbance quivering through the air._

_The shadow which hovers behind the left shoulder_

_A constant remembrance of things_

_Discharged by the memory._

_SMT2007_

* * *

Chapter 45: The Observer Changes the Observed

He stood in the shadows, always, hood pulled up, headphones on. He moved so quietly he often arrived in a room unnoticed, and was sometimes gone before anyone had registered his presence. He had practiced for years walking silently, standing still, slowing his breathing down until it was almost imperceptible.

He had been a quiet child, keeping to the corners, out of reach of swift punishing hands and booted feet. When he realized that people paid no attention to a child as long as that child did nothing to attract notice, he learned to listen and observe as well as blend into the background. He had always thought he would make a very good poltergeist; people seemed not to notice him no matter what he did.

But his undoubted skills took him in another direction altogether. And now it was the boy's turn. For weeks he had been following him, and although the girlfriend had caught sight of him today, he wasn't worried. Hiding in plain sight was never difficult, especially on a campus over-run with students. If he'd had a pack with him this morning, they would never have looked twice.

Pretty girl. And the kid seemed decent enough. Briefly, he wondered why his employer had set him on the kid's trail. Then he shrugged and forgot about it. He didn't get paid to wonder why. He got paid to do what he had trained himself to do for nearly ten years, ever since the last time his mother's boyfriend of the hour had taken it into his head to beat the crap out of the little boy he had been then.

Come to think of it, it was the last thing that guy ever did.

He sank further into the shadows outside the New York Crime Lab building, and turned up his music. The mark had gone in. He could wait until the kid came out again.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY

Ethel Mergetz looked into Stella's eyes a long moment, as if to gauge her character. Finally appearing satisfied, the old woman sat back with a sharp nod of her head, and when Lindsay came back with her coffee in hand, launched into the story without any more preamble.

"I can only tell you what I was told, you understand, my dears. As I said, the Rileys were too good for the likes of me and my Hermann, in spite of liking my coffee well enough, and coming to buy my pastries and handing them around at parties as if they were the work of her own fair hands." Ethel sipped her coffee. "But neighbours talk, and I dare say what I know is as close to the truth as you could find these days."

"Jamie Riley was a fine brave fellow, and he and Spillane had dreams for their little gang of hoodlums. They had already tried to move in on a few different areas, and been beaten back only by luck and viciousness in some cases. The big fight in '67? '68? The one where Lorenzo got shot, anyway – that was just one more battle in an on-going war for the streets. A few years later, though, they were trying to make arrangements, make alliances, between the Luccheses and the Irish. And Maureen was a pay-off."

Lindsay's eyes had been getting rounder as Ethel spoke, and now she put a hand over her mouth. But Stella just nodded. "An alliance between the Rileys and the Messers."

Ethel nodded again. "Jamie wanted the score, Spillane wanted blood-ties, and Gino wanted in. Gino would have married the girl himself, but he had already made his move. So up steps little brother." Ethel's voice left no one in any doubt what she thought of Anthony Messer. "Twenty-four years old. Already the perennial sidekick, always in his brother's shadow. Married off to Maureen Riley, disgraced and unrepentant little whore. Of course, no one said that out loud: she had six big brothers to protect what was left of her reputation. Eighteen years old and branded for life, married to an Italian punk with nothing to hold onto but his reputation on the street."

Stella sat back and worked her way through the cast of characters. "So Maureen, daughter of an Irish mobster, has a child with Lorenzo Sassone, who is connected to the Bonnanos?"

Lindsay interjected, "And presumably knows enough about the adoption to be able to find the child later; at least she would know where she had been sent, where the baby had been born."

Ethel nodded, eyes bright.

Stella went on, "Then she gets bartered away to Anthony Messer, brother of an up-and-coming wise guy, connected to Luccheses."

Lindsay said quietly, "Which means Danny is connected to – well, nearly everyone."

Ethel's eyes lit up again, "Oho – Daniel Messer? So that's where the beer gets in the bottle?"

Lindsay shook her head, confused by the reference.

"Daniel Messer is your interest in all this?" Ethel clarified.

Lindsay nodded, ducking her head a little against the blush. "He's my partner – in the NYPD Crime Lab."

Ethel said nothing, but the very silence resonated with her knowing smile.

"You knew the boys then, Ms Mergetz?" Stella said.

The woman took another genteel sip of her coffee, dabbing at her lips with a napkin before setting her cup down sharply. "And the old woman. Never saw much of Maureen after she got married. Not much for being out and about, not during the day at any rate. But Lucia Messer. Ah, there was a sweet lady. She deserved better, I can tell you that much."

The old woman sat staring into the past a moment, then looked up with a fierce light in her eyes. "Old people should not be left in corners to be called for when convenient. We deserve better, I tell you."

Stella and Lindsay sat silent for a moment, allowing the woman some space for her obvious grief.

"Ms Mergetz. What happened to Lucia?" Lindsay whispered.

"She came to America when the younger boy was born. Maureen had a hard time with that one; the older was easy as could be, but the little one, your Danny …" Ethel sighed. "Used to be the most dangerous thing a woman could do was give birth. Maureen nearly died twice: once when she began to bleed – three, maybe four months in – and they had a time to stop it. That's when Anthony insisted on bringing his mother from Messalina; Maureen's mother sent her a priest and lit a candle for her."

The old woman's lip curled in a sneer. "Lived around the corner and couldn't be bothered to come visit." She shook her head in disgust.

"So Lucia came to New York. No English, no friends. Gino helped pay for her to come, but did little else that any of us could see. Anthony basically put her up in that little apartment in a room in the back, and went back to being a mama's boy. And Maureen nearly died again when the baby was born – spent six weeks in hospital. Lucia looked after that boy as if he were her own. And Maureen? Well, what is it they say these days? She never really bonded with that boy. Blamed him for everything that went wrong in her life after that."

Ethel stared out the window, old sorrows, old bitternesses etched on her face. Then she sipped her coffee again and her face magically smoothed, the cynical gleam returning to her eyes. "Of course, she should have been blaming the bottle she crawled into after the baby! That would have been more to the point."

She sighed and finished the coffee, pushing herself slowly to her feet. "Lucia? She died – oh, ten? More? – years after she moved here. Got sick and just faded away. Some people whispered about it – said she had been helped along." Ethel shook her head. "I don't think so. I think she just gave up. The older boy went bad – left school and went on the street, joined some jumped up little gang."

"But Danny?" Lindsay said quietly, almost pleadingly.

Ethel looked at her apologetically. "Ah well, miss. We all make mistakes when we are young, don't we?"

A bell went just then, startling Stella and Lindsay, who had ignored the changing light in the room.

"Stel, it's 4:00!" Lindsay gasped in some horror.

John was standing at the door, pointing at his watch. "It's feeding time at the zoo," he said quietly. "We're being asked to leave."

Stella turned to say thank you to Ethel Mergetz, who had returned from putting her empty cup on the dish trolley.

"Don't mention it, my dear. Sad times in some ways, but always interesting. Long ago now. But talking to such young and pretty girls made the day go faster," the old woman said with a smile.

"Ms Mergetz? Just one more thing? You say you didn't live in the same neighbourhood. How do you know so much about the family?" Lindsay asked.

"My Hermann was always a good business-man," Ethel said complacently. "Owned his own business – the café you know, dear. But I was no slouch either. My son manages them for me now, of course – our third boy, dear – all ten apartment buildings. Including the one the Messers have lived in for over forty years."

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY

Flack had dropped Danny at his apartment, offering to go up with him. Danny had turned him down, gently for him. "You look like hell, Flack. You need to go home yourself, get some sleep. I get the feeling that hasn't been high on the agenda these past few days."

Flack nodded brusquely, and waited while Danny climbed up the stairs of his building. He knew Messer would prefer to drag his ass up the ten stories without an audience, but still he sat pulled up to the curb, waiting to see a light come on in the window he knew was Danny's front room. It took nearly ten minutes before he breathed a sigh of relief.

His phone beeped: a text message had come through. As he put the car into gear, he flipped open the phone and grinned when he read the message: _Hey Mom! Go home!_

He beeped the horn once and pulled out into traffic, but did not take the advice, well-meaning and probably smart as it was.

Instead, he found himself pulling up in front of St Augustine's. He sat in the front seat, nervously drumming his hands on the steering wheel, for several minutes before he finally hauled himself out of the front seat of his car.

He dragged himself up the large stone stairs as reluctantly as he had when he was a child, forced to go to Catechism class instead of playing b-ball with his friends. He dragged himself through the huge wooden doors, hand dipping automatically into the font at the entrance, making the sign of the cross without conscious thought, lips murmuring "in the name of the Pop, the Kid, and the Holy Spook", half expecting the smack of hard fingers across the back of his head. Father Antonelli had little patience with a small boy's irreverence.

He genuflected and sat down in a pew at the back of the church. He could hear the soft murmur of voices muffled by the oak and velvet curtains of the confessional box, and closed his eyes for just a moment while he waited.

He could smell the incense still lingering in the corners of the church from the Vespers service recently completed. Although spring was flirting around the corners, it was still dark enough in the afternoon that the glow from the candles was brighter than the light through the stained glass windows, but Flack could feel the warmth across his face, and put his head back to enjoy it while he could.

The smell of sanctity – incense and beeswax, and the lemon polish the old women used when they cleaned the church as an act of holy worship. The soft sound of the organist practicing in the loft above his head, something slow and unbearably solemn that built and sobbed out its passion until he felt almost lifted off his seat.

He could hear his mother's whispered prayers, feel the shuffle of feet as little sisters giggled and poked, bask in the sure knowledge his father was taking the long-winded sermon as a chance to catch up on some sleep.

He had spent half his life in this church: baptized in that font, singing in that choir loft until his voice changed, serving at the altar after that. He had been as devout, he supposed, as most Catholic boys were. Not as devout, it turned out, as Tony Reagan had been.

He grinned a little and settled down to wait until Confession was over.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY

Tony came out of the small box he had spent the last hour soothing, coaxing, and berating his parishioners in. It was his favourite part of being a priest, although not being exposed to the small petty grievances and daily hurts his people inflicted on each other. It was the chance to step in and make a difference in the way a man saw his own actions, or the way a woman thought of her life. He liked listening to people's problems and finding a way to help them cope. He believed, in the Confessional Box, he was closer to really doing God's work than anywhere else in his daily ministry.

But it could sure kick the shit out of a person.

He knelt at the altar rail a moment, praying silently, running the names of his flock through his mind like beads on a rosary, reminding God of their foibles and weaknesses, and asking for strength and courage for his own. Finally, he genuflected at the altar, before turning to leave. He startled when he saw a figure in the shadows at the back of the church. It was not uncommon for street people to come in seeking warmth and shelter, and St Augustine's prided itself on turning away no person in need, so Tony walked softly down the aisle to talk to the poor soul and see what help he needed.

A low ray of sunlight pierced through the stained glass window, bathing the darkened face with a golden radiance, and Tony caught his breath. Of course he recognized Don Flack nearly right away, but for a moment, for one heartbeat, the pale drawn face had looked like the face of an angel: one of God's warriors, fierce and solemn and filled with the anguish of immortality looking down at the brief and pitiful lives of God's small people.

Flack opened his eyes; he must have been channeling his father, although he hoped he had at least managed to avoid snoring. He looked straight into Tony's face, and said the first thing that came to mind.

"I'm sorry, Tony."

"It's okay, Don."

And like that, it was.

"_You have history. It stands."_


	46. Chapter 46: Coming to the Rescue

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY. Poetry not otherwise referenced is original._

_A/N: Thanks to all my readers, and those who let me know what they think about the story. I appreciate all the support this story has had. _

_Thanks to Prefect Rachel, not only for the beta, but also for the gift of Natalie Chance, her OC from the story "His Boys". Anything that rings true in Natalie and Reed's relationship comes from her._

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

* * *

_**Waiting for You**_

_A breath, a sigh, a piece of a dream_

_And a moment of time that will never return._

_A touch, a kiss, the press of a hand_

_Are the focus and centre of all that I do._

_A dream, a cry, a touch in the night_

_A refuge and safe place from all that I face:_

_The lies, the pain, the casual violence_

_The hate, the fear, the blinding indifference_

_The death of all the soft and the loving thoughts_

_All brought to life again_

_All given force again_

_All finding peace_

_In you._

_SMT2007_

* * *

**Chapter 46: Coming to the Rescue**

"Natalie?" It was Reed's voice, sounding small and scared.

She swallowed hard and said, "What's up, Reed?"

She'd wanted it to come out light-hearted, teasing, normal. But her  voice squeaked on the "up" and flattened on the "Reed", leaving her  apprehension sitting in the middle of the conversation like a large  hairy dog.

"My mom. She's not … She wasn't … Mac said …" It was as if he  couldn't catch a full breath, couldn't make the words come out. She  thought he was crying, but didn't know how to ask.

"Babe, it's okay, it's okay. Calm down, I'm here, I'm right here. Where are you?" She tried to control the shaking in her voice, in her hands. She was afraid she would drop her cell, and grasped it  tightly in both hands, tiny though it was. She was on her feet and  moving fast, out of the dorm room, down the stairs, pausing only to  grab her backpack. She didn't know where she was going, but she felt  a frantic urge to get there in time.

"I'm home. At my parents'. Can you come? Natalie? I need to talk to you."

"I'm on my way, sweetie. It'll take me 20 minutes, maybe?" She said it as a question, as if she hoped those twenty minutes wouldn't be too long for him, as if he might slip away in that time. "Are you  okay? Are things okay?"

She was running now, her breath short and choppy, pushing her  way through the students walking in large laughing groups, freed from  classes for the day, making plans for study groups and parties, for pizza and beer. She was heading towards the main bus loop, but so was  most of Chelsea's student body.

She bumped into one guy who seemed to be standing alone against the  tide, and muttered, "Watch it!" as she ducked around him. She had  almost dropped her cell, and she hung on with desperate hands to her  only link to Reed. The bus she needed was just pulling into the stop,  and she sped up to catch it. She flashed her bus pass at the unseeing driver.

"Reed? Talk to me, babe. I'm listening. I'm here. I have to catch my breath. I'm on the bus."

"I can't. There's too much to say. I can't do it on the phone. You're  on the bus now?" His voice was quiet, the panic submerged but still  bubbling under the surface.

"Yes. Sweetie, you aren't alone, are you? Is your mom with you? Your dad? Anybody?" Natalie was trying to breathe normally, but anxiety kept  stepping in and knocking her off balance.

"Everyone's here," he said wearily. Since his kidnapping, Reed had reluctantly moved back home. Miranda had yelled; Peter had begged. He had held out against them both for two days.

Mac had simply said, "Reed, you'll stay at your parents' place."

And Reed had nodded, packed his bag, and shown up on his mother's doorstep.

Natalie said, "Fuck, there's a traffic jam on the bridge, for fuck's sake. Oh, no. No, it's okay. It's okay;  we're moving again."

"I'll wait for you at the stop near my house, in about 15 minutes, then?"

"Okay. Wait for me there. Reed, I'm coming, babe. Just wait for me." She  closed up her phone and stared blindly out the window.

It would have taken a trained observer to notice she was being  followed. It would have taken a trained observer to see the  involuntary scowl of dismay the young man in jean jacket, leather backpack, and expensive running shoes gave as the bus doors closed in  his face. Only a trained observer would have noticed him wince while speaking quietly into the Bluetooth he was sporting, the sheepish shrug as he accepted the sharp reprimand transmitted back into his ear.

But that young man was a trained observer, and even he missed the figure dressed casually in hooded black, old Converse sneaks with ragged laces, battered NYU pack on his back, the one who had reached the bus door a moment, no more, faster than the older man, the one who stepped onto the bus and walked purposefully to the back, where he sat two seats behind the bright young girl in the pink Chelsea U sweatshirt, her feet bouncing nervously as she willed the bus to go a little faster.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY

The three detectives walked silently to Stella's car, Lindsay moving blindly, stumbling every so often. Stella fell back with John for a minute.

"What did you find out?" she said quietly.

"Mauser did tell his grandson that the Sassone baby grew up to be an FBI agent," John replied, "He had heard it through one of his sources. I didn't quite get all the connections he was talking about, but it seems that Sassone the elder, Lorenzo's father, kept an eye on the kid. He was adopted out of New Jersey – that's where Maureen was sent."

Stella nodded slowly, still watching Lindsay. "Get a name?"

John shook his head, "Not for sure: the old man was getting tired, and a little drunk."

Stella rolled her eyes and John shrugged, unrepentant.

"Got a couple of possibles." His eyes were cold. "I'll do a little more digging."

Stella looked up at him. "It is possible he's a good agent, you know."

John smiled down on her. "I'll keep that in mind, I assure you."

The drive back into the city was quiet: Lindsay curled up in the back of the car, Stella speaking only to point out to John rather unique sites in New York City, like Tiffany's and other case-related buildings. They were nearly back at the lab when Lindsay suddenly spoke up, colourlessly. "Could you take me to Danny's place, Stella?"

Stella looked at her in the rear-view mirror carefully, but shrugged and nodded. "What about you, John? Where can I drop you?"

John glanced at his sister, "Am I staying at your place?"

She handed him a set of keys, and explained which was which. He noticed that she did not look him in the eyes.

"You okay, Peanut?" He turned around to look at her, still huddled in the back seat.

She shook her head. "I don't know what to do now."

"About what?" John said quietly.

"He didn't tell me any of this, John. He doesn't want me to know. And now I do – I deliberately went behind his back to find out about him and his family." Lindsay shuddered; could Danny's nightmares really have stemmed from his mother? Could any mother treat her child like that? She had heard only bits and pieces, but she would never forget the horror of hearing Danny, so strong and confident, whimpering in fear and pain as he woke, crying out in Italian.

John nodded, risking a quick glance at Stella when Lindsay briefly closed her eyes. She looked back at him uncertainly. "Damn. I knew this was going to bite me," she thought wearily. Out loud, she said, "Look, Lindsay, he probably didn't want you to know about this. I know Danny, and he's proud. Maybe a little too proud."

She waited until Lindsay gave a little nod, showing she was paying attention. "So he wants to be all strong and invulnerable for you. Where does that leave you?" Stella's voice rose just a little. "I'll tell you. Nowhere. Sitting around waiting for him to tell you what's going on inside him - what's driving him so crazy he can't sleep or eat or take care of the most _basic_ of things."

She stopped, realizing she had maybe exposed herself a little more than she had planned. John and Lindsay studiously looked out opposite windows. Her phone beeped with an incoming text message, and as she stopped at the next light, she read it quickly, then again before the light changed. With a muttered curse, she snapped the phone shut and caught her breath. Lindsay was looking down at her hands now, and Stella could see she was close to tears.

She grimaced a little and started again, a little quieter. "So, sometimes you have to push your way in. Otherwise, he just might succeed in pushing you out."

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY

Adam looked at the clock nervously again. "No matter how many times you look at it, moron, it won't go any faster than one minute at a time," he reminded himself. Years of watching clocks had obviously taught him nothing, he thought.

"I'll start this test, and it will be finished by 10 o'clock," he said under his breath.

"Adam? If you're talking to yourself, it's probably time to book out," a quiet voice said from behind, startling him enough so that the test-tube he was carefully holding went flying out of his hand.

"Whoa," Hawkes said as he caught the fragile glass tube in one hand before it had a chance to drop to the floor. "Good thing you had that stoppered, buddy."

Adam nodded nervously and reached out for the evidence. "Liquid trace from a crime scene," he explained briefly, "Just going to analyse it." He placed it in the relevant machine and turned back to Hawkes. "Do you need something? I'm actually off – well, not until 10, actually – although I should have been off at 6 but something came up and I had to deal with the trace from this scene and …" he faded uncertainly at the patient look on Hawkes' face.

"How come you're booking so much over-time these days, man?" Hawkes said casually. He had been watching Adam carefully since Danny and Lindsay had come back from Montana.

"Need the money, at the moment," Adam said with a private grin, thinking about the reservations he had made for a fancy French restaurant on the West Side. Mac and cheese for the rest of the week, he thought, but it ought to be worth it.

Hawkes raised an eyebrow, but Adam didn't respond, looking a little lost in his own world. Hawkes decided the dreamy look in his eyes has less to do with mourning the loss of Lindsay to Danny, and more to do with some new interest, so he decided stop worrying about the lab tech for the time being.

"So, this trace from _my _crime scene?" he said patiently, "What is it exactly?"

"Oh – uh – yeah, sorry. It looks to be a combination of isohumulones, alcohol, CO2, 4-O-α-D-Glucopyranosyl-D-glucose, and H2O…" Adam started.

"Beer?" Hawkes looked up from the file he had been skimming through, "Beer and water?"

"Together with corticosteroids, urea, creatinine and ureic acid," the tech finished off.

"Beer, water, and piss." Hawkes shook his head, disgusted. "That's our mystery liquid?"

"Yep. Just another Saturday night in the dorms." Adam shook his head and turned back to look at the clock and saw to his relief that it was a few minutes to 10 o'clock – just enough time to pack up his station and get down to the lobby. "Anything else you need from me, Doc?"

Hawkes shook his head, already absorbed in the implications of this additional evidence. Why was it chemicals made so much sense until they all got put together into one living, breathing, contradictory person? The biggest mystery he had ever faced on the job had nothing on women, he thought glumly.

"Hey, Adam," he said over his shoulder as he left the lab to go back to the body, "Have fun tonight."

Reflected in the glass window, he could see the grin spread over Adam's face.

Adam packed up his station, humming under his breath, glancing at the clock. He wanted to be down in the lobby waiting for Aisha; she wouldn't be allowed past the waiting area and he didn't want to risk her leaving. On the other hand, he wasn't perfectly sure she would show up, so he was a little hesitant about hanging out in the lobby where everyone would figure out he had been stood up.

When his cell went off, he flipped it open absently, answering "Yeah?" as he finished securing the evidence he had been working on.

"Adam? Am I in the right place? There's a guy here with a gun looking at me funny."

"Aisha? I'm sorry – uh, you're early – I wasn't expecting – I'm sorry – I'll be right down…" he could feel the blush starting, and knocked a stack of files of the table as he spun around to grab his coat. "Shit. Look, Aisha, just sit tight, okay? I'll be just a second. Don't …"

"I'm sitting in the lobby, Adam. I'm not going anywhere." There was an undercurrent of amusement in Aisha's voice, and he blushed again.

By the time he was in the glassed-in elevator, he had nearly got his breath under control again. That peaceful state lasted until he was two floors above the lobby, and caught sight of Aisha. At that point all the breath left his body, and he felt as if he had orbited into deep space.

She was sitting demurely in one of the uncomfortable chairs, her long legs crossed and her coat pushed off her bare shoulders. Thin golden chains held a wisp of chocolate coloured fabric over her breasts, flowing down over her body to end mid-thigh. His eyes ran over smooth brown skin to the deep red heels that he knew would have her standing taller than him. He swallowed hard, then noticed that several more people were in the lobby than would be normal at this time of night. It only took him a moment to realize that every person in the lobby was male, and surreptitiously or not, every man in the room was glued to Aisha's every breath.

By the time he stepped off the elevator, she was on her feet, moving towards him with a mysterious smile on her face. She stepped into his arms, and leaned forward to kiss him. He closed his eyes to savour the moment: the hottest girl in town, in his workplace lobby, and she was kissing him senseless. Waves of male jealousy very nearly pushed him onto his ass.

"Dinner?" Aisha said softly when she broke the kiss.

"Huh?" He could feel his brain scrambling to catch up to his tongue, which felt a little thick and slow.

"Where are we going for dinner?" she repeated slowly.

"Oh, yeah. Umm. We need a cab. How did you get here?" He took her hand, thrilling when she pressed up against him.

"I walked."

He glanced down at her shoes uncertainly. "Far?"

She laughed and ran a hand over his cheek, "I can go as far as we want, even in these shoes. I promise."

"I'll flag a cab."

French food, fine wine, a beautiful, intelligent woman that no man in a two mile radius could keep his eyes off – after two years out from Phoenix, Adam finally felt like a New Yorker.


	47. Chapter 47: A Cry in the Night

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY. Poetry not otherwise referenced is original._

_A/N: Thank you to all who are reading and reviewing. I owe a special debt of gratitude to the wenches who listen to my moanings, and to PR, my wench-in-training, who has supported every step in this journey. I posted my first chapters on this site one year ago last week. It has been a wild ride since._

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

* * *

_A Mother's Prayer_

_The Lord gave you into my keeping, a gift_

_That was mine to hold._

_Mine to nourish and nurture._

_For all the times I failed, I beg His forgiveness._

_For the times I was impatient or tired,_

_For the times I forgot that your spirit _

_Could be as hungry as your little body._

_For the times I could not keep the world _

_From stepping on your heart_

_No matter how many times I stood between you _

_And all that would hurt you._

_God gave you to my keeping,_

_So that I could make you a man_

_So that I could make you a good man_

_So that I would no longer need to stand between you _

_And the world._

_SMT2007 _

* * *

**Chapter 47: A Cry in the Night**

"Sheldon? What are you doing here, son?"

A shaft of light striking out into the dark Harlem streets.

"I just came … I wondered … got a bed for a tired man, Mama?" A weary grin.

The last time he had shown up on her doorstep he had been nursing a broken collarbone. The time before that, a broken heart.

Elaine Hawkes stood on the wide stairs of her building, where she had sat for years, watching children run through the streets after school until mothers' voices chorused through the streets, "Louise Rose! Mason Bowdey! John Connor! You all come home now, you hear me? Your dinner is on the table."

The sounds ringing to the heavens, the nightly call to table, to home, as regular as a muezzin's call to prayer.

She walked directly to the centre of the home, moving lightly on small feet which held her comfortable flesh easily, her hips swaying. He watched her with bemused wonder: this woman who had held his life together seamlessly, widowed before she was wived, a mother before she was a woman.

She had brought him up alone, worked two jobs at a time, held the tiny family together through the storms and doldrums of an ordinary life. When they had told her at the school he was testing in the genius level, she had been neither surprised nor worried, saying only, "God gave you that brain for a reason, Sheldon."

She added a third job to pay for his college education, at an age where other boys his age were leaving school and getting jobs to help support their families.

Hawkes would do anything to keep her from pain or worry.

Nearly anything.

"No bruises or cuts on you. What you comin' round for?"

"Just some of your cooking, Mama."

She had been silent for nearly ten minutes when he told her he was leaving the hospital to go to work for the morgue. Nearly twenty minutes when he told her he was applying to work as a Crime Scene Investigator.

It took him a long time to realize she had been praying through that seeming withdrawal, asking for guidance in how to help and support her son while dealing with her own fear and concern.

"Mama, what do you do when you need to make a difficult decision?" He sat at the table on which, like in fables of old, food magically appeared.

She stopped with the coffee pot in her hand and stared, surprised. "Why, Sheldon, you know what I do! I ask the good Lord for his guidance, to show me His will." She poured out the coffee and added the cream and sugar she knew he preferred.

"How do you know He has heard you?" Sheldon flushed a little as she sat down across from him.

"I just know. I feel a sense of peace, as if I have been filled with light. Whatever it is, Sheldon, you can take it to the Lord. He will never let you down or forsake you." Her face was filled with a confident stillness.

"I'm in trouble, Mama. And I know what I want to do. But I don't know what I ought to do." He stared down at his plate, filled with food he could not eat.

She sat silent. Waiting, he knew, for a word from God.

A God he could not believe in. A God he could not face. A God he could not even name. Not anymore.

And when she had cleared the table, putting away the untouched food, she pulled him into her warm embrace, into the strong arms that had held the world away from him his whole life, and said, "Let's see what the morning brings. Pray at night, wake up in the morning…"

"With your mind stayed on Jesus." Sheldon completed the lyric with a smile. "I love you, Mama." He hugged her back, and made his way to the bedroom he had grown up in, unchanged since he had left to go to university – a little too smart and a lot too young.

And while he slept in peaceful contemplation, although he would hesitate to call it prayer, Elaine Hawkes sat at the kitchen table that had seen its share of broken, angry, and hurting people, and read her Bible in the dim light, and sought answers from her God.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY

By the time they had emerged from the subway station, Adam was so confused he could hardly focus on where they were. When he finally realized it, he turned to Aisha in some shock.

"Coney Island? Aisha, it's freezing out here! And everything is shut down for the night – hell, probably for the season still." He pulled his jacket close around himself, shivering slightly.

Aisha stopped in front of him and insinuated herself into his arms. "It's not that cold, desert boy. And I promise you won't even notice it in a few minutes." She wrapped her arms around his waist, snaking her hands under his coat, and laughed when he yelped at the touch of her cold hands on his bare skin.

"Come here, you baby, let me warm you up a bit." Delicately, she smoothed the tip of her tongue over his upper lip, then sucked him into a passionate kiss that sent his senses reeling. She purred when she felt his body's instant response to the feel of her breasts pressed against him, and ran a teasing finger over the suddenly too-tight jeans.

"Down, boy. You have to wait for your pleasure." She grabbed his hand and led him away from the ornate main gate to a smaller one around the corner of the amusement park, a rusty gate in a chain link fence with an old padlock through a thick chain barring their way.

"Too bad, it's locked. I guess we'll have to come back another night, maybe a little earlier," Adam said with relief.

Aisha took a small set of keys out her pocket and started trying one after another, until finally one key rewarded her patience. She grinned over her shoulder at the young tech, and his eyes nearly crossed with lust as she stuck her tongue out playfully. "Are you going to come along quietly, or am I going to have to get rough with you?"

"Whatever you say, ma'am." He nearly stuttered, his heart pounding wildly as she pushed him through the gate and took his hand to lead him down darkened alleyways behind the booths he knew would be filled with people during the day. The scents of popcorn and hotdogs ghosted through the air; he could almost see, he thought fancifully, bright balloons being hawked by teenage kids, hear the screams of people on the rides.

Aisha turned to smile at him, stopping to lean up against a wall and pull him close to kiss him breathless. Her height made it easy for him to boldly trail his mouth down her throat to stop in the hollow between her breasts, licking the heated skin and shivering at her moan. She grabbed his hand and pulled him down yet another alleyway – he was now hopelessly lost in the Amusement Park, not even sure what direction he was going in any more.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY

"Danny?" She knocked only once, her voice almost too quiet to be heard over the sounds of the city below. She was throwing her fate to the hands of the gods; if he did not hear her, had already gone to sleep, or was not willing to talk, she would be absolved of the sin of asking too many questions, of prying into places she had not been invited.

The door opened swiftly, and he was there, a dark, almost menacing figure. She stepped back uncertainly, biting back a scream when he reached out and grabbed her arm.

When he wrapped her in his arms though, and sighed into her, she melted against him in relief. She tucked away the fear that she had overstepped in a tight corner of her mind.

"Montana. You okay?" Always his first thought. Ready tears came to her eyes.

"Yes. Are you?"

He nodded briefly, then drew her in the cold apartment. She rubbed her arms, and he turned to the thermostat, turning on the furnace as if he simply had not thought of it before.

"Food?"

She shook her head. Food could not fill the empty space. All she could taste was betrayal.

He had moved to the kitchen nonetheless, and was standing looking aimlessly into an almost empty fridge.

"Danny, are you sure you're okay?"

He turned to look at her, and was at her side in two long steps, his hands on her shoulders, eyes boring into hers. "What's happened now?"

She shook her head helplessly_. "Not now," she wanted to say. "Not now, but your whole life."_

Aloud, all she could say was, "I'm sorry."

He stooped and covered her mouth with his. When he raised his head, she was trembling slightly, her cheeks flushed.

"What could you possibly be sorry for?"

She bit her lip, agonizing over her next words.

Danny rubbed his hands over her arms comfortingly. "What is it, Montana? You know you can tell me anything, don't you?"

"Danny… come and sit down." She pulled him to the couch and sat in the corner, just out of his reach. She took a deep breath and turned away from him.

"Lindsay, you're scaring me here." His eyes were dark and wide, burned open as he watched her.

She got up restlessly, walking across the room to look out the window, look down on the still busy street below. Spring had been reluctant this year, her third in New York, and was still struggling to make it. She knew how Spring felt.

She turned and looked at Danny, sitting tense and unhappy on the couch, a bottle of water in his hands. Her Danny. He had overwhelmed her, not just in her apartment hallway the first time they had had sex, but over and over again: by coming to Montana, by standing up to and with her family, by facing the wilderness and overcoming it.

And she had repaid him in treachery, going behind his back to find out things he could not have wanted her to know. Things maybe even he did not know.

For a moment, she thought again about not telling him. Just hiding it away, the way she had kept her past from him. The way she was still keeping things from him. This would be no different. It might be the best thing, her cowardice argued, quivering in a dark corner of her soul. He never had to know that she had pried into his family, into his torment.

She squared her shoulders and leaned forward a little, perched on the wide windowsill. "Danny. Stella and I went to see Gunter Mauser today."

Danny sat back, confusion in his eyes. "Mauser? Mouse Mauser? Flack's snitch?"

Lindsay shook her head, "His grandfather, Gunter."

"Why?'

Her heart bled at the familiar curiosity which underpinned his every thought, but she clasped her hands again and went on. "Mouse told Flack that there was another Sassone brother."

Danny nodded, finishing off his water. "Yeah, Flack told me. When him and Mac met with me."

"Well, Mauser, the grandfather, knows something about it. We took John with us."

He looked up at that, "Where is John? Why didn't he come with you?"

Lindsay flushed, "I gave him a key to my place. I needed to talk to you."

Danny stood up and moved towards her, "Lindsay, what is the matter? You're acting all weird."

She put her hands up, and he stopped moving towards her.

"You're scaring me."

"I don't mean to." Her voice was tight and unhappy.

"You found out something… about me. About my family." He said it with certainty, and a cold dark dread.

She nodded, and closed her eyes in shame. "We talked to Mrs. Mergetz. Ethel Mergetz."

Danny let out a long slow whistle, "Old Lady Mergetz? I didn't know she was still alive."

He narrowed his eyes and stepped away from her, saying coldly, "Why are you here, Lindsay? Whatever you found out, it couldn't have been good. The Mergetzes and people in the neighbourhood never had much good to say about us. I never lied to you. You knew about my family, that we were connected…"

Her eyes flew open and she reached for him. He ignored her, turning his back on her deliberately.

"I can't believe that you are going to turn on me now." His voice was harsh, as if he had to push it through a throat closed by despair.

"Danny, listen to me …" She could barely speak; a kind of terror had sucked the breath from her body.

He walked to the door and put his hand on the handle. "The door's open, Lindsay." He suited his actions to the words. "I can't keep you here. If you can't trust me, can't believe me … you should go now."

Lindsay stretched out her hand to him again, but he had turned his back to her, facing the door with a grim determination not to influence her in anyway.

He thought he had faced this despair and overcome it: when the Tanglewood mess had tripped him up, when Louie had been killed for him, when she had turned away from him again and again. He thought he had faced losing her.

But that was before he had held her in his arms, had felt her peak and fall apart in his arms, had woken to her warmth after a nightmare.

He didn't know how he was going to face the world without her. But he wouldn't hold her against her will, wouldn't bind her to him with obligation.

He felt her arms go around his waist, her body pressed up against him, sobs forcing their way through her, and turned to wipe the tears from her eyes. "Lindsay, it's okay. It's okay. I understand. I do. I should have known better… you deserve better."

His tortured whispers against her skin burned into her. "No… no… Danny… not you… me… I am so sorry. I knew better but I had to know. I'm sorry… so sorry…"

He went perfectly still, his arms around her, then slowly pushed her away so he could see her face. "What are you sorry for?"

"For going to see Mauser. For listening to Mrs. Mergetz talk about your …mother." Lindsay looked up into his face: not just still now, it looked carved out of marble. The only thing left alive were the deep blue eyes, and they were fiery hot.

He turned from her, moving back to the living room, where it was his turn to perch on the windowsill overlooking his city. When he was sure he could control himself, he said, "What did she tell you?"

Slowly, she closed the door, locking them in. She stepped carefully around the brittle tone and sank into the couch. She hadn't worked this out – how to tell him what she knew, what she had guessed, what she had learned. A piece of advice floated through her head, "Start at the beginning, and go on to the end, then stop."

And so she did, curled up in a corner of the couch, shivering from time to time as she spoke. And he huddled against the window, staring down into the slowing streets as the night took over, and listened silently to the story of his life.


	48. Chapter 48: A Woman's Place

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY. Poetry not otherwise referenced is original._

_A/N: As always, thanks to those who read my stories and send me their thoughts and encouragement. Thanks again to Prefect Rachel for creating Natalie Chance and keeping her in character. _

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

* * *

**_Women's work_**

_They said a woman's work was never done_

_That time and place were in her hands, _

_And while the home was woman's domain_

_The world outside was ruled by man._

_But that changed._

_And women moved from home to world_

_And back again._

_And the work cannot be done_

_For the job of the day is that of the sun_

_And the task of the home is that of the moon –_

_The dark mysteries that govern a woman's mood_

_And power and gift of sight._

_And no woman born can resist the need_

_To turn the darkness light. _

_SMT2007_

* * *

Chapter 48: A Woman's Place

"I don't understand, babe. Your mother – why didn't she tell you or your dad about this?"    The young girl's eyes were alive with curiosity and compassion. She was lying on Reed's bed, wrapped in his arms.

Natalie had listened to him talk from the time he had met her at the bus stop by his home, through a snack that would keep her from having to eat for the rest of the day, to a make-out session that had ended, a little guiltily, when Peter Garrett had slammed open the front door and shouted out cheerfully, "Hey ho, anybody home?"

Reed had talked. And talked. And talked. The fear, the anger, the guilt, the resentment, back to the anger, then the fear again: he had swung from emotion to emotion like a monkey through the trees. Natalie was exhausted just listening to him. He was revved so high she might have thought he was on drugs, except that she knew he did not do drugs.

Natalie snuggled closer, as if she could hold Reed together by sheer force of will, by the strength of her arms around him.

Reed closed his eyes and rubbed his head against Natalie's. "I don't know. She's funny, you know? She wants to be in the public eye – she likes that. But at the same time she doesn't seem to realize what it does to us. To Dad and me. He hates it, you know – the whole thing."

Natalie murmured, "What about you?"

Reed shrugged, "It's okay. She doesn't expect much of me. Just smile and don't say anything too crazy."

Natalie moved so she could look into Reed's face. "How do you feel about that? I know I sound like a bad psychology student, but I'm serious, sweetie. How do you feel about this – your mom getting you into this? I mean, you got kidnapped, Reed. You could have been killed." Her arms tightened around him again, holding him closer than should have been physically possible.

Reed shrugged again, "I got lucky. I know it." He shivered a little. He had not told Natalie about the construction site trailer, or how close to getting caught he had been. Some things were way too big for honesty. "Mac reamed me out already. Several times."

He turned on his side, resting his head on one hand and staring seriously into her eyes. "But if I want to do this, be a reporter who takes on the toughest cases, I'm going to have to deal with stuff like this. And Mom has given me some pretty good training. You should have seen her when that sleazeball hack went after her, though. I wouldn't want to get on the wrong side of her."

It was Natalie's turn to shiver. She had been on the wrong side of Miranda Garrett, and the view was not pretty!

She heard the chimes of a clock downstairs, and looked at her own watch in horror. "Jesus, Reed, I gotta get going. I have a film class tonight, in like an hour."

He rolled over onto his back and grinned up lazily at her, hands behind his head. "What genre is it tonight: noir? Romance? Action?"

Natalie leaned over the bed and whispered wickedly in his ear, "Porn." She laughed as his eyes grew wide. "Sorry, babe, not really. We're watching examples of existential films from the 1950s: excerpts from _Rashomon_ and _In a Lonely Place_. Then, I'm sure, we'll have to write about them."

"Well sweetheart, that's why they call it college," Reed said in his best Bogey voice.

She rolled her eyes, groaning, not bothering to answer.

Teasing and pushing each other, they ran down the stairs, Reed catching her in his arms at the door and kissing her lingeringly. "Hey, Nat? Thanks for coming to babysit me."

She hugged him hard and said, "Any time_, babe_. Seriously."

"You want me to walk you to the bus stop?"

"Reed? Dinner will be ready in a second," Peter called from the kitchen.

Reed looked at Natalie a little comically, and she laughed, "Oh, I get it. You'd rather eat than wait with me?"

"Well, Dad is making tacos. And it's hella-cold out there," he defended himself with a grin.

She wrapped her hands around his face and kissed him again. "Go! Pig out on tacos. I have to run or I'll be late and Professor Gupta will have locked the door. Jerk."

He waved her good bye and turned back into the house just as a figure all in black with ratty Converses and a backpack moved down the street.

He didn't notice.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY

They stopped in front of a small warehouse, large enough perhaps to house a small plane. Aisha pulled her set of keys out of her pocket again, and this time Adam asked, "Where did they all come from?"

She flicked her hair out of her way and replied idly, "I never turn in keys when I leave a job. And I've worked at lots of places."

"Isn't that illegal? I mean, you sign for them, don't you? Don't you have to pay to have everything re-keyed?" Adam frowned, his security-conscious nature, honed to a fine edge by Mac's patient tutelage, shocked to the core.

The key in Aisha's hand snicked over, and she laughed. "Do you know how seldom they bother to actually re-key? Stay here." She slipped inside the building and efficiently keyed in the alarm code, silencing the alarm before it had even started beeping its warning countdown. She stepped back and beckoned him to follow her. "Or change the alarm codes? People are just naturally lazy, Adam."

"I don't know, Aisha. We could get in big trouble if we get caught in here, and I think Mac would blow a gasket if I got caught breaking and entering… and I really don't need him on my case… and Danny would never let me forget about it and… why are we here anyway?"

She shut him up by kissing him hard on the mouth, then turned him around with her hands over his eyes. "Keep them closed until I tell you, Mr. Law and Order."

He felt her step away, leaving him in the dark warehouse. "Aisha?"

"Not yet."

He breathed in, feeling the flutterings of panic in the bottom of his stomach. "Aisha?"

"Give me a second."

He had to bite down on his cheek to keep himself from screaming when he heard a machine begin to move in front of him. All the terrible crime scene photos he had seen in his life flashed in front of his closed eyes, and he waited in terror for the pain he was sure would come.

"Open your eyes," a soft voice breathed in his ear, a warm body pressing up against his back, hands wrapping around his waist.

Heart still pounding madly, he opened his eyes to see the old Grand Carousel of Coney Island gleaming softly, the light from the canopy the only illumination in the dark building. Aisha breathed again, "The music will start in a moment. Come on."

She pulled him up on the platform as the music began, a tinkling jolly little piece, and the great carousel began to move, slowly at first, but then speeding up – some horses prancing merrily up and down, others pacing in stately procession, with the little carriages riding sedately behind.

Dazzled, Adam walked from animal to animal, rubbing his hands over gleaming wood smoothed by the tender ministrations of thousands of small hands over the generations. He found his favourite: a black charger fierce with flaring red nostrils and a proudly uplifted head, and, after searching out Aisha's permissive nod, he swung himself into the saddle and held on.

Aisha put back her head and laughed at the delight in his eyes, then so casually she might not have planned it, swung onto the horse so she was facing him, her back against the pole. Her jacket slid off her shoulders, leaving her scantily clad and shivering a bit in the cold air, her nipples puckering under the silky fabric. She placed her hands on either side of Adam's face, and kissed him, sliding her tongue into his mouth as he gasped and wrapped his arms around her hips, pulling her close.

He would never have believed how many ways there were to ride a merry-go-round.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY

"So, you and Father Tony? You're good, now, right?"

The only light in the room was over the old man's bed, a dim glow illuminating the gray hair, turning it silver above shadows etched across his face. Machines beeped and whirred domestically, monitoring every breath and shift.

In the corner by the window, two dark figures, chairs close together, knees touching, hands entwining, talked quietly, their words punctuated by the heavy breaths from the bed.

"Hmm. We're good, Stel."

She shook her head, hiding a smile. How like men. A word or two, a high five, and it was all over.

"What now?"

He sighed. He still had not made it to bed, and he could feel exhaustion like a pall weighing him down. "I don't know," he admitted. "What you've told me about the Sassone kid – sounds like Monroe is going to chase that down."

Stella nodded. John Monroe had the same steely determination his younger sister showed, with little of her spunk or customary light-heartedness. They could safely leave the Sassone-son mystery in his hands.

"And the Mob hits – Taglia and the other one, the one with the Tanglewood tat – let's face it, we may never figure those out. These guys aren't amateurs. They don't get caught."

"Not by us, anyway," she added grimly. The Mobs took care of their own 'law' enforcement, and while it wasn't always pretty, it was swift justice of a sort.

Flack nodded, worried that his head might just fall off his shoulders if he did it too hard.

"Mac put a tail on the Garretts. And on Natalie Chance, Reed's girlfriend." Stella had talked to Mac as he was leaving the lab for the first time in far too many hours. She was keeping a careful eye on Flack; as soon as he was too tired to resist her, he was on his way to bed too. She'd already worked a deal with one of the hospice nurses and a cot with his name on it was in the room next door.

Flack raised an eyebrow in disbelief. "How'd he swing that? Ms. Garrett is a tough customer and she wasn't buying any of it when I tried."

"Mac showed her crime scene photos." Stella shrugged. She hadn't really approved, but the results were undeniable. A white-faced Miranda Garrett had caved instantly when she saw the pile of stained blankets her son had been kept on for hours, with the bloody tape from his wrists left artistically in the centre of the nest.

"Why on Chance? She in danger?" His words were starting to slur.

"You know Mac. Thorough." She watched him carefully, waiting for the next pause to lengthen. Five more minutes and he'd be out, she assured herself.

"I got guys on Messer Construction, following the top guys." The yawn nearly took his head off, but he controlled himself. His eyes fluttered closed and his breathing began to slow.

"Okay, Detective. Come with me." Her voice was soft and soothing and she put her arm around him to lead him through the door.

"What? I'm okay, Stella. I can't leave; I promised my mom…" his incoherent protests stopped as she gently helped him onto the cot, removing his shoes and covering him with the blanket the nurse had provided.

"He won't be alone, Don. I promise. Sleep now. Just for a few minutes. I'll wake you."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

His hand shot out and grabbed hers, turning it over to press a kiss on the palm. "I love you, Stella."

She froze, waiting for his breathing to steady, before gently releasing her hand and stepping to the door of the tiny room. She watched him for a minute, then glanced over to where his father lay before looking back at the young man who dwarfed the little cot, his feet hanging over the end. Somehow, it was absurdly touching.

"Shit." A whisper under her breath. "I love you too, Don."

She turned away before she saw the slow smile spread across his face.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY

It had taken everything in her not to beg. She had considered it seriously at one point, about the time he picked up the phone to make "Just one more call," then had sat staring at the phone as if he had no idea what this piece of technology had been designed to do. She had suggested and coaxed and prodded; she had sat silent, fetched him files, written up notes. She had done everything possible to make sure he could leave the office and go home to sleep. Finally, she had simply picked up his coat and helped him shrug into it, then had taken him by the hand and led him to the car, holding out her hand for the keys.

He had looked at her, a little shocked. Peyton did not drive. She had never explained to Mac why she did not drive; he knew she had a driver's license because he had seen it, although she preferred to use her ID card from the city when she needed to prove who she was. But in all the time he had known her, he had never seen her behind the wheel of a car.

She did not explain, simply unlocked the car doors and climbed into the driver's side, waiting for him silently. He shrugged and sat in the passenger seat, a little apprehensive.

She drove out of the parking garage, her strong surgeon's hands competent and sure on the wheel. When they hit the road, her foot hit the accelerator, and Mac began to get an inkling of why Peyton chose not to drive in New York City. She weaved in and out of the still full streets as if in hot pursuit. Luckily, she was out of the heavier traffic frighteningly quickly, and Mac thought he was going to be able to breath easy. Then she hit a long stretch of open road and Mac closed his eyes in horror.

When he opened his eyes next, Peyton was driving into the garage beside his brownstone. He looked cautiously to see if there was a speeding ticket tossed somewhere in his car, but couldn't see anything obvious. He was pretty sure he would have woken up if the car had been stopped for any length of time.

He pulled himself out of the car, muscles protesting wearily and head spinning a little. He could not remember the last time he had eaten or slept, but he knew it was long past time to do both.

By the time he had made his way into the house, Peyton was already in the kitchen, heating up soup and cooking eggs. She had swept through the house ahead of him as if she belonged for the first time since she had crossed the threshold, and Mac could feel his heart squeeze a little at the thought that she was feeling at home.

Silently, she placed the food in front of him, and watched him eat every bite while she sipped her tea. He knew she was angry, but he could not even begin to work out why and he knew anything he said or did was going to cause an explosion he had neither the energy nor the ability to deal with. He would have to trust her to say what she needed to when she needed to.

As soon as he swallowed the last bite, she had the dishes in the sink. "Go to sleep, Mac."

Her voice was cool, and Mac could only shrug and kiss her on the cheek. "Are you all right?" He had to ask, but he closed his eyes in anticipation of the inevitable discussion he could feel trembling on her lips.

"I'm fine. Sleep."

If he could have got up the energy, he would have gone down on his knees in gratitude for her restraint. As it was, he kissed her again, and disappeared up the stairs.

Peyton stood perfectly still over the sink, tears dripping off her cheeks into the warm water.


	49. Chapter 49: Fighting Fire

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY. Poetry not otherwise referenced is original._

_A/N: Thanks as always to all those who have written to tell me what they like and didn't like in the story so far. And thanks to those who continue to read along, following the adventures._

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

* * *

_

* * *

_

**_The Fall_**

_It shook the very foundations_

_Of everything I thought my life was about_

_It entered into my life like an explosion_

_Shattering my comfortable illusion_

_That I had any control over whom I was or what I did._

_It came out of the blue – a screaming intrusion_

_From the cool blue sky above_

_And I was caught in the blast,_

_Flung out of the shelter I had created for myself._

_And now I lie in the ruins of my deception_

_Waiting for the smoke to clear,_

_Shaking the ringing out of my ears,_

_Blinded by the pure clear light of you,_

_Still falling, suspended in wonder._

_SMT2007_

* * *

**Chapter 49: Fighting Fire**

At a run, Hawkes slipped under the Crime Scene tape, his badge in hand ready for the uniformed cop who tried to stop him. "CSI. What the hell…?"

"It's okay, Mayer, he's with us," Flack waved Hawkes over and turned to look at the building currently enveloped in flames and smoke. "Beirne, Pulaski, take over here, would you?" Two uniformed officers caught his order and nodded, going over to question eyewitnesses and assist with triage.

Flack clapped Hawkes, who was staring in horror at the building, on the shoulder. "Doc? You with me?"

Hawkes tore his eyes away, "Yeah. Yeah, can you tell me what happened?"

Flack motioned to the building, "Bomb threat was called in at 7:30 am. By the time we had a team here, we had managed to stop the staff from coming in and cleared most of the neighbourhood. Bomb went off at 7:45 – bastard didn't give us much time."

He turned as Mac and Danny appeared on the scene. "Messer, what're you doing here? Thought you were still riding a desk?"

Danny shrugged, "Call out went to everybody, so I'm here." He shot a glance at Mac, who didn't respond, instead focusing his attention on the building in front of him.

"Where are we, Flack?"

As Flack gave a quick recap for Mac and Danny, Hawkes looked around for the clinic partners: Miriam, Kathleen, perhaps, if he was lucky, Nasreen. He spotted a crowd of women standing at a safe distance from the building, being interviewed by the police, and walked towards them.

"Shel? Sheldon? Thank God!" It was Kathleen O'Conal, eyes teary, red curls wild around her head. "Nasreen, have you seen her?"

Hawkes shook his head, grabbing her by the shoulders, "They cleared the building, Kathleen. It's okay."

Miriam came up behind him, wringing her hands, "We can't find her. She's not answering her cell. She wasn't home this morning when we tried to let her know about the bomb threat."

"And she comes in early. Really early, Shel. There are kids, little ones she plays with before school. Shel … have they found any … do you know …" Kathleen was having trouble breathing now, her gasps wrenching through her body.

Hawkes yelled for the paramedics, "Oxygen here!"

Miriam's arms went around her partner, "She tried to get back in – she has asthma and got a lungful of crap."

"Look after her … I'll find Nasreen." Hawkes didn't wait to see the women's grateful nods.

"Flack! Flack, we have to go in."

"Not safe yet, Doc; the site hasn't been secured."

"Dr. Suq. She could be in there. With kids, Don." Hawkes watched in relief as Flack's eyes cleared and turned steely.

"Suit up." The order was clipped.

It didn't take long to get a team ready to go in: two firefighters in full gear to damp down the hot spots remaining, a member of the bomb squad to monitor for a secondary blast, two members of the TAC team. Hawkes was not surprised to see Flack suiting up beside him; the detective never let a member of the team face danger without his backup.

"Where would they be, do you think? We need a direction to start."

Hawkes closed his eyes, although he didn't need to remember the first time he had seen Nasreen. "In the garden. Where we interviewed them all the first time? She liked … likes … to go there with the kids." He swallowed hard at the involuntary admission that his worst fear may be true.

"Let's go, but follow orders or you are out of here."

Hawkes nodded crisply, paying no attention whatsoever.

The team spread out as it hit the door, trying to minimize its impact on the evidence, as well as make the search as quick as possible. Hawkes moved purposefully through the clinic to the back room, barely waiting until a section was clear before moving in a direct line to his goal. The oxygen tank on his back felt heavy, a necessary burden he would just as soon have dropped in favour of speed. They only reason he kept it on, he told himself, was to help the survivors he was determined he would find.

"Flack! This way!" The corridor he was moving down had sustained some serious damage; obviously the bomb had been placed in the centre of the building.

"I need help here – this door is stuck." He turned, too impatient to wait for the proper tools to cut through the door, which was crumpled and melted from the intense heat of the blast.

"Stand back, Hawkes. NYPD! Stand back from the door – we're coming through!" Flack thought he had heard a sound through there as well, so quickly braced himself and kicked through the door.

His gun was in his hand, a mask obscuring his face. Hawkes hoped any children who were unharmed wouldn't be too frightened.

Sweeping the area, Flack stepped through the door first. "Hawkes! Get over here." Through the microphone embedded in his helmet, he snapped, "We need a medic team in here. Bring them in over the back wall if you have to – I have one – no, two – children injured, ages 12 to 15 maybe. Concussion injuries from the blast it looks like." He snapped out more orders as Hawkes moved from one crumpled body to the other, checking vitals, speaking soothingly.

"Flack! This one says there are more over this way." As EMTs poured through the doors, Hawkes leapt to his feet, moving towards the direction the young boy had pointed. "Nasreen? Nasreen? Where are you?"

"Sheldon?"

He could have sworn his heart stopped in his chest, so that his whole body could concentrate on listening for a repeat of that feeble sound.

"Nasreen? Where are you? Can you call, make some noise, something?" A line from a child's book ran through his head: "Yop! … from the smallest Who of all."

He was moving before he even knew what direction it had come from. He was moving before his heart had a chance to beat again. He was moving before he thought through how he had known in which direction to move.

He didn't stop until he was kneeling on the ground beside Nasreen, one hand reaching for hers as he brushed blood from her face. Automatically, he began to evaluate her injuries, barely noticing as Flack and the other police officers began to check out the ten young children, two of whom were young enough to be held in arms of girls perhaps 8 or 9 years old.

He pulled the mask off his face, and put it over Nasreen's, hoping to ease her breathing a little. He was checking her pulse, her reactions, her pupils, all without consciously taking in his own actions. He was waiting, searching desperately, for some response, something that would tell him she knew who he was, what had happened. Under his breath, he was muttering, "Come on, darling. Let's go, sweetheart. Open those beautiful eyes for me, okay?"

Flack squatted down beside him. "Doc, the EMTs can take her now." He waited a minute for Hawkes to show some sign that he had heard.

Hawkes continued his ministrations without reply.

"Hawkes. Shel," Flack's voice dropped sympathetically. "Shel. Let them take over." He put his hand over Hawkes' and repeated himself. "Shel, let them take her."

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY

Stella was waiting, tense and silently aware of every beep and blip from the machines surrounding them, for the information to start streaming in from Danny and Mac out in the field. She had been called in early for her shift and told to go straight to the lab to set up the remote feed. Mac had asked her to call in Lindsay; Danny was going to join him in the field.

"I know, I know." He had forestalled her question. "But Lindsay has no experience with disposal, and she can run analysis of the bomb components."

"And you have us safely out of the way," Stella said dryly. "Since when did you become a closet chauvinist, Taylor?"

"Since my people started getting hurt." The answer was so low, Stella wasn't sure she had heard him properly.

"Just once. Okay, Stel? Just indulge me this once. I promise to throw your ass in the line of fire the next time."

She had hung up without answering.

Now she sat, waiting for Lindsay to show up so they could work their magic in the nice safe lab while the men they partnered, in many senses of the word, were out in the field.

"Stella? What have we got?" Lindsay's voice dragged slightly, as though she was still half asleep, but when Stella turned to examine her, she looked rested enough.

"How did things go last night?" To hell with subtlety.

Lindsay shook her head, "I told him what Ethel Metzger said, about his family, his mother."

"And?"

"He went to sleep." In the bedroom. Alone. She had stayed on the couch for a while, then had snuck out to catch a cab and go home. There had been a message on her cell phone from his number when she woke up; she hadn't listened to it yet.

Stella put an arm around her friend sympathetically, "He needs time. I doubt he knew the whole story. Some of it must have come as a terrible shock."

Lindsay nodded, resting her head on Stella's shoulder for one minute, then shook herself briskly. "Is the data from the blast coming in yet?"

The two women turned as one machine began spitting out numbers, and smoothly moved into analysis-mode. There would be no more time for personal issues until the investigation was complete.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY

As soon as the building had been declared provisionally safe and the children had been removed to the hospital, Mac and Danny had moved into the building with the bomb squad experts to process what they could of the scene, sending information back to the lab through a link to Lindsay and Stella. They worked quickly, aware that structural damage was likely to drive them out long before they could collect enough information.

Mac snapped his phone shut for the third time with an aggravated sigh. "Where the _hell _is Adam?" he muttered under his breath.

"Who's in charge here? I need to talk to whoever is in charge." A loud confident voice cut through the dust and debris like a sawblade.

Mac said over his shoulder, "Mac Taylor, Detective with the NYPD Crime Lab. And you would be?" He glanced briefly at the badge thrust under his nose. "Homeland Security. Agent Grant. Forgive me if I'm wrong, but weren't you here investigating this site only a few days ago?"

Special Agent Troy Grant's blue eyes went cold , and his lips thinned at the subtle insult. "We investigated the incident. It was a low risk for repeatability."

"Yeah," Flack said, "Except that, according to witnesses, you failed to find the ringleader. In my mind, that makes it pretty clear who we should be looking for here."

"Look, Detective, the boys who vandalized the place are low-life scum who want to make the world a little less comfortable. They did not have the brains or the balls to pull off a bomb."

"And the leader of this merry little band? Huh? He's managed to avoid your guys for days now. Meanwhile, we got ten kids in hospital and Dr. Suq …" his voice faded. What was the point? He could tell from Grant's arrogant glare that he wasn't getting through. He didn't need Mac's warning look to make him turn away in disgust, shaking his head. He followed the investigative team through the hallway Hawkes and he had chased through earlier.

"Detective Taylor, Homeland Security will need copies of all your findings, all the evidence that you gather."

Mac stared right through the man. "All files will be available when my investigation is complete, Special Agent."

Flack came back in through the door faster than he had gone out. "Everybody needs to get out now! The building is collapsing. Mac! Danny!"

Mac had grabbed the equipment he was using and started to move before Flack had finished his sentence. With a startled curse, Danny did the same and fled behind his boss. Grant stood for a few seconds longer while Flack spun around to speed up other members of the investigative team, but when a support beam shuddered, he was quick enough to follow along behind.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY

Mac stood watching the building fall in on itself. They had managed to move everyone far enough away that the dust filling the air was of no immediate danger, but he couldn't help but feel sick at the powdery film that covered his skin, the thick choking sensation of it. The image of the Towers going down, never very far from his mind, was seared into his lungs again.

His cell went off, and he checked the Caller ID before swearing and turning from the dying building to take the call.

"Reed? You okay? I'm in the middle of something, so it's not a good time to talk …"

"Mac, it's Natalie."

Mac stopped dead. "Reed – what are you talking about? Where's Natalie?"

He could hear his stepson take a deep breath, "She was here last night. Then she left to go to her film class. She never made it. Mac, she's not answering her phone; she hasn't been to her dorm room. She left our place at 6:05 last night and no one has seen her since."

"Hold on, kid. I'm on my way." Mac hung up, knowing that the surreal calm Reed had displayed would not last long.

"Danny, go to the lab. Secure what evidence we have. Flack, call Stella, and tell her to meet us. We have a missing person."

Flack turned to argue, but swallowed his words when he saw Mac's white face. "Not Reed again?"

"Natalie Chance. His girlfriend. Damn it, Flack, I had a man on her. Why wasn't I informed when she didn't show up at her dorm room?" He fumed as he walked to his car, dialing in a number with stiff short jabs. "Taylor here. I want Sergeant Adams on the line and I want him now!"


	50. Chapter 50: On A Breath

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY. Poetry not otherwise referenced is original._

_A/N: Thank you to all those who review to let me know what you are enjoying, or are confused about, or would like to see happen. Thanks also to those are still reading along and, I hope, still interested in finding out what happens next! _

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

* * *

_Heart Strung_

_There was a time when I was sure of you,_

_When your presence lent a truth to the world,_

_When the sheer knowledge of you was enough:_

_Like the feel of the earth beneath my feet,_

_Like the dance of the stars above my head,_

_Like the certainty that sun would rise, _

_And moon would set, day in and night out._

_There was a time when sure was the beat _

_Heart to heart, with no pause or break._

_But now the earth has shifted under me._

_The moon does with the morning rise, _

_The stars come out to play with the sun. _

_If I cannot be sure of your spirit _

_Beat to beat with mine_

_Then how will I know that my heart_

_Continues to drum unbroken? _

_SMT2007_

* * *

**Chapter 50: On a Breath**

"So Hawkes went to the hospital with the ambulance, and Mac went to the Garretts' to talk to Reed and sent me back here." Danny avoided Lindsay's eyes as he began to sort the evidence they had collected at the scene.

"I can't believe this," she said, folding her arms around her body as if she were cold. "Poor Hawkes. Is Dr. Suq all right?"

Danny shrugged, concentrating on the debris in front of him on the table, "The EMTs didn't pull the sheet over her face. That's all I can tell you. We bugged out with all the equipment, and then Mac got the call from the kid."

Lindsay shivered, "Mac had people on Natalie Chance. How could she be snatched?"

Danny glanced up. Lindsay was shaking and pale, and any resolutions he might have come to through a long and painful night were dashed in that moment. "C'm here."

If she could have resisted, she would have, she told herself, for his sake more than for her own. But once his arms were around her, once her head was resting above his wildly beating heart, she knew there was no turning back.

"Danny…" her voice trailed off as his lips moved over her temple, down one cheek, to finally touch on her mouth, a silent promise.

"I'm sorry, Linds."

"No." She shook her head before burying it against him again. "You don't need to be."

"I just needed … to think some stuff through. I shouldn't have shut you out." He held on a little tighter, running one hand through her hair.

"I know. It's okay. We'll talk when you are ready, Danny. Whenever that is."

"I want to keep you away from it all, you know? You shouldn't be covered in all the shit I grew up with."

Lindsay tilted her head back, running her fingers up his jaw to cup his face. "I am not the fragile thing you seem to think, Messer. Forget about the past few months. I can take nearly anything you throw at me. And no matter who your family is or was, you are the result."

She pulled his head down a little to rest her forehead against his. "You, Daniel Messer, are the result of all the shit you grew up in. And I happen to think you are pretty amazing. So don't protect me or try to keep me clean. I may not like dumpster-diving, but I prefer it to being kept in a nice sanitary lab away from the action." She looked around her with a dismissive air.

Danny couldn't stop the grin from spreading over his face, "Does that mean you're volunteering for the next disgusting job we have on the board, Montana?"

"Not if it is someone else's turn, Messer." She touched her lips to his. "We good?"

He captured her mouth in a brief searing kiss, then whispered, "Give me another chance to get this right, okay?"

"All the chances you need, Danny. And we'll get it right together."

Their brief moment of comfort was interrupted by a beeping from one of the machines, and Lindsay grabbed the readout of the bomb components analysis, which she handed to Danny.

"Well, no big surprise there. Typical back-yard-bomber ANFO pipe bomb with ammonium nitrate and diesel fuel. Any idea what the detonator was? May give us a clue as to who the bomber was."

Lindsay shook her head, "Model builder's engine, like for a model airplane? Easily picked up by the dozen in thousands of hobby stores in the city."

Danny nodded, picking up the readouts, "I'll call it in to Flack, see what he wants to do next. I think he is going to interview the kids who trashed the place last week; Homeland Security never found the guy who headed up the gang."

Lindsay said, "I'll keep working; maybe I can break down the fertilizer, see if there is something unique in the chemical profile. I'll wait for word from Mac, too. Danny?"

He turned at the doorway with a smile, "Yes, Montana?"

"Dinner tonight? I'm cooking."

"Where you going to find buffalo in _my _city, Montana?"

Lindsay smiled in answer to Danny's cocky grin, but her face went serious as soon as he had moved down the hallway. She pulled her cell off her belt, and looked at the voice mail display. _Messer 2:15 am. _Unopened.

She bit her lip a moment, considered. Then, swiftly, so she wouldn't chicken out, she hit _Erase._

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY

"Mrs. Garrett, I need for you to calm down. Detective Taylor will be here soon, and he will want to talk to Reed. In the meantime, I am here to take a preliminary statement from all of you."

Miranda Garrett turned toward the fireplace, her fingers over her mouth as if holding back a scream. "Reed … Reed is distraught. He can't talk to anyone now, much less one of the people who failed us."

"Miranda!" Reed's father came around the corner, and rushed to his wife's side, glancing apologetically at Flack, who seemed to fill the living room. "I'm sorry, Detective Flack. My wife is upset – she doesn't mean what she is saying. Reed is in his room. Miranda will go and get him now."

Miranda glared at him; then her face hardened and she repeated his words in a cold voice. "I will go and get Reed now, Detective." She stalked out of the room.

Peter Garrett threw himself down on the couch, running his hands through his curly hair so it stuck up off his head. "I do apologize again, Detective. I realize you are going to have to work with my wife – you _are _that Flack, aren't you? You are heading up the Organized Crimes Task Force?"

Flack nodded brusquely, "Where were you last night when Natalie Chance was here, Mr. Garrett?"

"Uh – I came home around 4:30." The man frowned, as if trying to remember the events. "I called up the stairs – Reed was in his room with Natalie."

Flack's eyebrows rose, but he said nothing, just scribbling notes in his ubiquitous notebook.

Peter shrugged, "Miranda doesn't like girls going into Reed's room, but I can't see any difference. When he's at the dorm, we have no control over what he does. Why shouldn't he be comfortable at home?"

"Did you go up to see them?"

"No, I thought I would give them a chance to – you know – straighten up. I just went into the kitchen to start dinner."

"Is that your usual routine, sir?"

"Oh, yes. Miranda doesn't cook. The only thing she makes for dinner are reservations." The man smiled weakly; it was obviously a much-repeated joke. "And I cook early, because she has so many evening meetings. If she makes it home for dinner at all, we need to be finished by 6:15 at the latest most nights."

"Mr. Garrett …"

"Peter, please."

"Mr. Garrett," Flack said firmly, "Did you actually see Natalie leave the house?"

Peter shook his head. "I heard them come down the stairs – they were joking around, you know? Then the door opened – it squeaks. They stood for a minute talking or necking or whatever, so I called to let Reed know dinner was nearly ready. I heard the door slam a minute or so later."

"Was Mrs. Garrett home?"

"No. Not yet. She came home maybe fifteen minutes later, and I served up dinner then."

A new voice came from the door, "So I could have waited with Nat, walked her to the bus stop. I could have made sure she was safe before …"

Peter was out of his seat, enfolding Reed in his arms before the boy could finish his sentence. "I am so sorry, Reed. So sorry."

"It's not your fault, Reed. She was being followed, and not just by us."

Reed's face cleared and he turned with a glad shout, "Mac!"

"Hang in there, Reed. We're going to get her back." Mac Taylor patted Reed on the shoulder, then turned to Miranda, who was following her son. "Mrs. Garrett, just a few questions."

With only a slight scowl, Miranda led the way into the sitting room, taking centre stage as she sat elegantly in the wing chair by a window. Reed collapsed onto the floor beside her and looked up, hope shining in his eyes.

"We've canvassed the neighbours, and will be taking statements from the officer I had assigned to keep an eye on her." Mac's face was bleak, and Flack shuddered at the thought of that interview. The rookie had been out-flanked by an 18 year old in ballet flats. "Reed, did you notice anyone hanging around the house yesterday?"

Reed shook his head firmly, "No way. I've been watching – you know, because of what Nat said. I spotted your guy following me, and made sure I didn't lose him. I wish I had known you had someone on Nat too, Mac. I'd've warned her…" He swallowed hard.

"Okay, Reed. What about when you got home? Or when Natalie left to go to the bus. Anyone on the street then? A car that seemed out of place? People waiting for the bus?"

Reed frowned, "No. That time of day, the streets are pretty quiet. The Woodleys' car drove past; Keely waved to me from the back seat. She was going to ballet class. She's, like, five."

"She has a crush on Reed," Peter interjected.

Reed shrugged, "The Crowes' dog-walker was taking their poodles, Muffy and Buffy, for their walk, and didn't have their leashes tight enough. Give them an inch and they'll take the whole block. That used to be my job when I was in high school."

"Keep going, Reed. What else did you see?"

"The bus was coming up the street, and Nat ran for it. I watched her… she runs … really, really well." He choked for a minute, then struggled on, "It's the dancing, I guess. She was about ten feet away when a guy came up behind her; he kind of caught up to her, I guess, even though he wasn't running."

"Describe him," Flack said quietly.

"My height, not any taller. Slender, dark hair, wearing all black. Back pack and Converse sneakers. He … he …" Suddenly, Reed looked up, his eyes wide, losing any colour he had regained. "Mac, he's the one. The same one. The one Nat saw… and me. The one we told you about."

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY

"Dr. Hawkes? Dr. Hawkes." The young nurse put a gentle hand on his shoulder.

He looked up at her, eyes still red-rimmed and bloodshot from the dust and debris at the clinic.

"Dr. Suq's doctor would like to talk to you. And Drs. Beniamin and O'Conal are outside too." The nurse stopped for a minute, then giggled a little breathlessly. "Wow, that is like totally a _lot_ of doctors!"

Sheldon stood up wearily, and bent over Nasreen's still unconscious form on the bed. He stood and brushed a kiss against her forehead, carefully avoiding her bandaged, burned hands and wrists as well as the tubes delivering fluids and oxygen to keep her stable and comfortable.

"Sheldon, thank you," Miriam whispered as she hugged him, passing him on to Kathleen, who asked anxiously, "She is going to be okay, isn't she? She looks so grey."

"She's suffering from trauma," Lissa said, her professional tone slightly warmer than it would normally be. "Her injuries have been taken care of, and there shouldn't be any long-lasting effects physically, at least."

"What are you saying, Lissa? Or rather, not saying?" Hawkes leaned against the wall wearily, acutely conscious of the woman in the bed behind him, and the woman in her Emergency Room scrubs in front of him.

"She's not waking up," Lissa said bluntly. "She should be awake, Shel. There's no reason for her not to be, not physically, at least. We'll keep on her on this floor until all her vitals are stable, but if she doesn't improve, we'll have to move her. To the fifth floor." She watched him carefully, and suppressed a sigh as he slumped.

"Why? What's on the fifth floor? I don't have privileges here, Miri – what's on the fifth floor?"

"Coma. Kat, Lissa is saying Nasreen may be in a coma."

"No. No, she just hasn't woken up yet. You said there was no trauma to the head. You said it was mostly superficial. Lissa? Why won't she wake up?"

Lissa took Kathleen's hand in hers. "Kat, she may not choose to wake up."

Hawkes turned away to stare through the window in the door.

"What do you mean? Of course she wants to wake up. Shel? Tell her. Tell Nasreen to wake up."

Miriam wrapped her arms around the distraught Kathleen, soothing her in a quiet voice as she led her away.

Lissa looked at Hawkes hesitantly for a moment, then said on a sigh, "Sometimes, if they are talked to, coma patients respond. It is worth a try."

Hawkes shrugged tense shoulders, "You know there's no solid proof of that."

"No. No proof. But to the best of my knowledge, there is no evidence that standing outside a patient's room grinding your fist into a wall does any good either." Lissa waited a moment, then said softly, "Go talk to her, Sheldon. Tell her what you are thinking. Maybe even tell her what you are feeling."

"If I had any idea what I was thinking and feeling, I might be able to do that, Lis." Hawkes' phone rang and he glanced down at the call display with a slight grimace. "Try to get Kathleen in to talk to her, would you? I think Kathleen needs that."

Lissa nodded as he moved quickly out of the hallway, answering his phone as soon as it was safe. She took his place at the window, staring at the silent figure, dark against the crisp white of the hospital bed.


	51. Chapter 51: Loose Ends

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY. Poetry not otherwise referenced is original._

A/N: I really appreciate everyone who has taken some time to review the last few chapters. I know this story has been going a long time, but we are coming closer to the end. I hope the people who are reading will continue to tune in!  


_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

* * *

_  
Changes_

_It's just the job._

_The job which tightens my sinews, and ties up my heart_

_The job which holds me in place, unable to shift, to move._

_I used to dance, _

_To flow through the world like water through stone._

_I used to sing,_

_To speak without wondering which word would wound._

_I used to be,_

_Simple and centred in space and in time and in breadth of soul._

_It's just the job_

_Which has hobbled my feet,_

_Which has closed up my throat,_

_Which has sent me spinning off balance._

_Just the job._

_SMT2007_

* * *

Chapter 51: If You Find a Loose End, Cut It

"What the hell is going on with your unit, Adams?" If Mac had yelled, the people standing at attention in the room would not have flinched. Instead, he spoke with an almost casual frigidity, as if he were merely curious, and each person there felt the freeze deep in their bones.

The four New York City police officers who had been assigned to the Garrett family and Natalie Chance stared at their shoes: nice clean expensive running shoes. Finally, the youngest, Michael Storuschuck, looked up into his sergeant's face.

"I'm sorry, Sarge. There were too many people for me to stay close. She made it on to the bus at the university loop before I could catch up. I called it in and O'Brien picked her up when she came off the bus near the Garretts' house, while I went for my car." But it had been parked several blocks away; parking on a university campus was criminally expensive, and his expense sheet didn't include parking.

"Who'd you see around Chance, Storuschuck?" Adams attempted to recover his authority. What was it about Mac Taylor, he wondered, irritated, that made every knee automatically start to bend?

The kid gave a good try, he thought, glancing under his eyebrows at Taylor, who was taking quick notes on the people Storuschuck had seen at the bus stop. Taylor's dismissive silence was enough to stiffen the kid's spine; he was determined not to screw up again.

"The person who got on the bus right after Natalie. Describe him again."

Eyes closed to focus more closely, Storoschuck did so. "Short – not more than 5'5". Dark hair: sort of goth-looking, very pale skin. Wearing a black hoodie, backpack, Converse sneakers. I noticed them because he nearly got caught in the door. If he hadn't slipped in front of me …"

Mac handed the kid an artist's sketch and asked in a weary voice, "Like that?"

"Yeah. Yeah, it could be." Storoschuck could not meet Taylor's eyes. Talk about having a chance and throwing it in the crapper. Everyone knew that getting Taylor's attention was a fast track to whatever type of career you could be looking for.

Mac motioned to him to hand it around to the other team members. "Recognize him?"

Tim O'Brien, Calvin Montiveo, and Helen Atherton all took a cursory glance at the picture, then shook their heads, thankful to be out of the line of fire.

Mac took the picture back and stared at it for a moment. "So none of you saw this guy yesterday?"

The two young men shook their heads instantly, mouthing quiet denials, while Atherton's head up came up swiftly, warning bells going off.

"Interesting. Because, Sergeant, this guy has been seen following Reed Garrett over the past few days. In fact, he's the reason Garrett is under surveillance."

Adams glared at O'Brien, who was Reed's shadow.

"No, sir. I didn't see him. Not at any time today. I followed Garrett from his family's home this morning to Chelsea, staked out his classrooms, then back to his home at 3:00. He took the bus, ate at the cafeteria with a couple of young guys – I downloaded the pictures if you want them, Detective Taylor – and then he walked back to the main bus stop. I followed. He walked into his house and I took up surveillance outside." O'Brien's voice ran out.

Mac turned mildly curious eyes onto Montiveo, who immediately stiffened and gave his report. "Peter Garrett left the house at 8:00 this morning. I followed him on foot to the New York City Library; he took the subway, arrived at the building at 8:45. He stayed in the building until about 3:40, and returned home the same way he came, arriving at his house at 4:25. He did not leave the building during the day, and met with no one outside of the staff."

Mac looked down at the picture in his hand again thoughtfully. "Atherton?"

The female officer who had been assigned to Miranda Garret gave a quick and efficient report, beginning with Garrett leaving at 6:00 in the morning to go to her gym, and ending with her walking in the door at 5:15 that night.

"Adams, you trust your men?" The voice was coolly neutral, but all four officers stood to attention when Adams stiffened.

"What the fuck kind of question is that, Taylor? Of course I do." The sergeant said it quietly, but his intense dislike of Mac Taylor rolled through the room.

"Then maybe you could ask them, Sergeant. You could ask them why it is that that this kid," Taylor smacked the picture of the boy who had been following Reed for days, "Why this kid was outside of the Garretts' house this afternoon, close enough to catch up to Natalie Chance when she went back out to the bus? Close enough to snatch her off that bus? And yet, your trained team of police officers, who must ALL have been at the house within minutes of her disappearance, saw nothing? Including seeing the person they were supposed to be following leaving the house and getting _on _the bus in the first place?"

Mac walked out of the room, leaving the four rookies in a room which had suddenly become a pressure cooker.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY

"Sorry to call you back in, Hawkes. Is Dr. Suq okay?" Stella's sympathy was nearly too much for Hawkes to take. He shook his head, but refused to unload this burden of guilt and anger on a friend already carrying too much.

"She's holding on, Stella. What do we have?"

"Not sure. Lindsay was able to isolate the fertilizer components, and she says she found something a little unusual." They swept into the lab, where Lindsay was labeling the last of her samples. Danny came over to the table, silently squeezing Hawkes on the shoulder in sympathy.

How quickly they had all figured out there was something between him and Dr. Nasreen Suq, he thought, bemused.

"Lindsay?"

Lindsay turned, her eyes alight as always when given the opportunity to explain her research. "So, the bomb was made up of the usual ingredients: ammonium nitrate and diesel fuel. A reasonably stable compound, although it can be very dangerous, depending on the detonator used."

She handed Stella the readouts. "As you can see, nothing particularly strange – the formula is easily available."

Danny muttered, "Damn Internet – kids can find anything these days."

Hawkes grinned deprecatingly, "I don't know. When I was in senior high and wanted to find out how to make a bomb, I just asked a library geek. Had the answer within three hours. No Internet in those days."

Lindsay looked over her shoulder, "Was your geek a closet terrorist?"

Hawkes shook his head, "Big reader – he found the formula in Abby Hoffman's 'Steal This Book', a '60s manifesto on revolution."

Danny grunted. "What did you want to blow up, Hawkes?"

"I was twelve and three months from graduation. Anything."

Danny smirked, then became serious. "So, we looking at kids here, Linds? Could they do this?"

"Simple pipe bomb," Stella said thoughtfully. "The kind kids do make for fun. Is that all – a kids' prank gone all grownup?"

Lindsay was shaking her head. "I don't think so. This one was reasonably sophisticated, including a few safeguards to keep the bombers from losing digits." She indicated pictures of the replica the bomb squad had put together. "More importantly, though, the ingredients are … odd."

"Come on, Linds. Out with it." Danny rolled his eyes for her benefit, grinning a little to himself. Trust his girl to draw things out.

"Okay. Ammonium Nitrate fertilizers are made of manure, along with other components. Usually farm waste: cows, pigs, chickens. But this? This is high-class: pure, unadulterated Zoo Poo."

Stella snatched the readout again and stared at it. "What do you mean, Zoo Poo?"

"Manure from the zoo. Look at it, Stel. DNA from giraffes, elephants, zebras, hippos. All mixed together, sterilized and packaged for _very_ high class gardens. This stuff goes for $10 to $15 a bag, twice as much as ordinary manure. It's very high in nitrogen, see? It's amazing stuff – did you know an elephant can produce a third of a ton of manure a day?"

"So who uses expensive manure to blow up a clinic?" Danny winced at the thought of cleaning an elephant display.

"Someone who doesn't know it's expensive …" Stella started.

"Or someone who doesn't give a shit." Danny finished.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY

Flack rubbed his aching head. Even the five hours of sleep he had caught on the cot at his dad's hospice hadn't really helped the exhaustion he could feel tangled around his feet. And now two big cases had been dumped on him, under the assumption that "Organized Crime" included liaising with the Homeland Security idiots.

With a sigh, he spun around in his new, still uncomfortable chair and stared out the window of his fancy new office. He preferred his customary corner of the busy precinct building, where the constant coming and going of cops talking about cases had kept him in touch with all the things happening in his city.

Now, like Mac, he was looking out over the city. Funny how the bird's eye view made him feel unconnected, out of touch. He could imagine some men, men like his old captain, Gerrard, felt powerful and in charge from up here.

He just felt lonely.

Restless, he stood and walked towards the huge picture window, pressing himself against it, trying to see to Queens, the neighbourhood he had grown up in, the one that still screamed "home".

"Am I interrupting a tender moment here, Detective? Or are you contemplating jumping?"

The voice from the doorway was unfamiliar, but when Flack swung around to confront the man, his face broke into a grin. "Agent John Monroe. What the hell is the FBI doing in my city?"

John laughed, taking Flack's offered hand and shaking it warmly. "You know, New York is as much FBI jurisdiction as anywhere else, Flack."

Flack motioned to a seat, sitting down beside Lindsay's brother with a sigh of relief. That desk was big enough to crush a spirit, he thought. "So, Agent. You here for something special or just a family visit?"

John shook his head, "Business, I'm afraid." He handed Flack an envelope, and waited patiently while the detective glanced through the papers inside.

"Ah. I wondered who my liaison would be." Flack sat back, considering the man sitting beside him.

He saw a tall, brown-haired, brown-eyed man, solid and confident. No surprise there. Tough breeds came out of Montana – look at Lindsay Monroe, who could take down a man twice her size with a tackle that could rattle the teeth in his head. And confident was the FBI's secret handshake – you could always tell a G-man, even when he was a she.

He looked for some likeness to Lindsay – they were brother and sister after all – but could not see it. Where Lindsay was full of a vibrant curiosity, John Monroe was controlled, contained, even more than most FBI agents Flack had met. Somewhere in the man was a deep well of hurt; Flack just wasn't sure if Monroe owned it or dished it out.

Maybe both.

"So, Monroe, if this is a liaison meeting, liaise. What does the FBI think it can share with me that I don't already know?"

John sat back, looking up at Flack who had risen from his chair and wandered back to the window. He steepled his hands under his chin and began in a slow deep voice.

"Donald Flack. Junior. Born in 1975 to Donald Flack Sr, Lieutenant, New York City Police Department and Dora Kennedy. Grandson of Officer John "Jack" Flack, who spent close to 30 years on the streets and knew everything there was to know about everybody. Three sisters…"

He stopped when Flack made an involuntary movement, and skipped the rest of the family history he had memorized. "Police academy right out of school, graduated top of the class. Partner as a rookie beat cop – Gavin Moran, a dirty cop brought in by his protégé two years ago. Moved fast, made Detective in Homicide. Tapped for a highly public position after getting a lot of press notice, dubbed 'Super-Cop' in the tabloids. Has an impressive knowledge of New York crime history. In spite of a tendency to hot-dog," John grinned to himself as Flack's hands clenched, and continued a little more quietly, "Is respected and admired by some people I trust. Especially Lindsay."

Flack relaxed a little, turning to face his interrogator, the light from the window throwing him into deep shadow. "How is Linds doing? You staying with her?"

John shrugged, "She arrived at her apartment, alone, after midnight, and cried for three hours straight. I'm thinking Messer's head would look good mounted on my father's dining room wall."

"She hears you talking like that, yours will be right beside his." Flack sat in his too-big chair, and swiveled slowly. "Danny's okay. He's just … dealing with some stuff."

John snorted, "He makes my sister cry again, he can stop worrying about whatever he's dealing with."

Flack looked down at his hands, wound tightly together, "He's Gino Messer's nephew."

"Yeah. That too," John's eyes were cold, mere slits in his face.

"Look, Monroe," Flack sighed, "There isn't a thing you can tell me about Danny Messer and his family that I don't know or – if you could – that I would care about. He's connected. I know. Through the Messers to the Luccheses. I know. Through his mother to the Westies. I know. His brother was in Tanglewood. I know. You got anything new?"

"His half-brother …"

"Is a Sassone. Yeah, I know that too." Flack stopped, considered a moment. "There are connections all around him. But Danny? Danny is not connected, not by anything other than family. He is as straight as they come and I trust him. So does Stella Bonasera, and she would take him out without a second thought if she had any reason too. So does Mac Taylor, and he doesn't trust anyone."

He looked at the agent across the desk from him, and saw a brother. He sighed, "And Lindsay. She trusts him with her life. With more than her life. Don't go there, man. You'll only end up losing her and killing him."

It was John's turn to push himself out of the chair and wander to the window.

"We talked to Ethel Mergetz and Gunter Mauser. You knew?" He waited for Flack's quick nod. "Mauser had some ideas about Sassone's kid. I've spent the morning chasing down what he could remember."

"You found him?"

John nodded.

"Good agent or bad?"

"You tell me – you've met him." John said. "In fact, you have another meeting with him in about twenty minutes."

Flack looked up at him questioningly, just as his intercom buzzed and the secretary he had met that morning spoke, "Detective? Just a reminder that you should be leaving to go downtown. You have a meeting with Homeland Security at 11:00? You're to ask for Agent Troy Grant."

Flack sat back with a low contemplative whistle, "Thanks, Sonja." Then he looked up at John Monroe. "So, Agent Monroe. Care to visit the Homeland Security with me?"

Monroe nodded crisply, and grinned, "Lead the way, Detective. Let's see how FBI cast-offs who are also Mob by-blows do in the Homeland Spook department."


	52. Chapter 52: Time to Move

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY. Poetry not otherwise referenced is original._

_A/N: Once more, a HUGE thank you to all those who take the time to review and let me know how the story is working for you. I can't really explain what a difference it makes. I am glad so many people are reading and - I hope enjoying - the story too. _

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

* * *

_**Action Hero**_

_Blood pounding, heart racing –_

_The adrenaline rushes around the body_

_Like a caffeine hit through the fog of exhaustion._

_Hands shake, breath hitches –_

_Knowledge and fear pushed to the background_

_To wait for another time._

_Pay attention; hurry up;_

_Listen to the orders and think things through:_

_Hurry Up._

_Hurry Up._

_It all depends on you._

_Make a mistake and people die._

_Make a mistake and you die._

_Calm down;_

_Hurry Up._

_Then the moment comes: the one they call Entering the Zone._

_The moment when everything slows down._

_You could swear you can see the heart beating_

_Beneath the skin._

_You could swear you can hear the blood moving _

_Through the veins._

_Do it._

_Do it now._

_Take your time._

_Take a breath._

_Make a mistake, and it will be the last thing you ever do._

_So don't._

_SMT2007_

* * *

Chapter 52: Time to Move

"Mac? Just reporting in. Lindsay identified the organic matter in the fertilizer used in the pipe bomb at the clinic. It's Zoo Poo. Yeah – cured manure from the Bronx Zoo. It's packaged and sold in high end gardening stores as well at the zoo. Still pretty common, though."

Danny walked swiftly down the hall as he talked to Mac on his cell, heading towards the break room. Although it was only halfway through the morning, he had skipped breakfast with the early call out and was hoping to score something left over in the fridge as well as fill up his coffee cup. The empty carafe on the machine was a temporary let down.

"Anything new on Natalie Chance?" He listened intently as Mac replied, and began rummaging around to make fresh coffee as his boss gave him new orders.

"Okay, Mac, we'll get on that. Adam should be able to track her phone. Are you still with Reed? Ask him what plan Natalie's phone is on – we may be able to get the company to turn it on if it's been turned off." Danny wanted to say something to comfort Mac, but there were no words. He hung up and phoned Adam, who had finally shown up, disheveled and heavy-eyed, half an hour ago.

"Hey man, try to locate this cell number, would you? If the phone isn't on, contact this company, NYTel, and get it turned on. This kid has been missing over 15 hours; let's get on it, okay?" He hung up before Adam could do more than say "Okay." It was obvious Adam had a story to tell about his lateness, but Danny knew no one was in the mood this morning.

He turned from the cupboard where he had been collecting coffee-makings, and saw Hawkes, sitting at the table, his hands covering his face.

"Hey, Doc. Coffee will be a minute." He put a hand on Hawkes' shoulder for a moment, then sat down across the table. "How's Dr. Suq?"

"No change yet. If she doesn't improve in the next few hours, she'll be moved to the fifth floor." Hawkes didn't need to say anything else; Danny's face tightened. His brother Louie had spent the last few months of his life on the Twilight Ward, as Danny had bitterly termed it.

"You okay?"

"No. I'm really not. She got to me, Danny, you know? I don't know how else to put it." Hawkes looked down at his hands. "I never really believed in all that love at first sight stuff. But Nasreen…"

Danny nodded, a vision of Lindsay in the tiger cage rising unbidden.

"I always thought it made sense to be with someone you were compatible with, someone who shared your interests and background. Not someone that you have little common ground with. Where can you stand together if you come from such different places?" His voice faded out. He couldn't believe he was talking to Danny Messer, of all people, about women and life-long commitment.

When he looked up, though, Danny was nodding thoughtfully. "Sometimes, Doc, you just have to make a new place to stand. Somewhere between the cityscape and the wheat field." He pushed up out of his chair and looked down at his friend, his eyes remote. "Coffee should be ready in a moment. You look like hell – caffeine may help."

"Where you going?" Hawkes looked up, momentarily distracted.

"Something about the explosion isn't sitting right. I'm going to do some digging of my own."

"Careful whose shit you disturb."

Danny nodded in acknowledgement of the grim joke.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY

"What the hell do you mean, this is not my case, Monroe? This is a matter for Homeland Security. The FBI can keep its sticky fingers off." Grant's face was flushed deep with anger, and Flack thought for the first time that he could actually see a family resemblance between the agent standing, leaning with his fists on the desk in front of him, and the overly cocky Sonny Sassone who had caused Danny such heartbreak.

"Not any longer, Grant," Monroe seemed to emphasize his slight Western drawl when talking to New Yorkers, Flack thought with a smirk, a habit which was clearly driving Grant up the wall. "Unless you have more than unsubstantiated theory tying this clinic bombing to terrorist activity, the FBI is looking into possible organized crime activity."

Grant glanced over at Flack uncertainly. "You have any _substantive_information backing that claim?" he sneered, but the attempt wasn't very convincing.

Monroe threw a file on the desk separating them. "Drug activity. The clinic has been a focal point for the past three months. The Luccheses have been making a move to consolidate their power base in the neighbourhood. Then the death of that girl…"

"Caitlin O'Leary," Flack said quietly, arms folded across his chest, face impassive.

Monroe accepted the correction with a nod, "The death of Caitlin O'Leary brought unwelcome attention to the neighbourhood, and especially to the clinic. There were too many eyes around Gino Messer's operation; he decided to do something about it."

Grant glanced through the records and files the FBI agent had tossed on the desk. "You?" He snarled at Flack. "You knew about this?"

Flack pushed the bitterness down flat as he said, "Special Agent Monroe has briefed me." In the car, on the way over to meet with Grant.

John turned to lean against the desk and face Flack, with a slight apology in his eyes. "We just finished compiling everything. As always, too many agencies, not enough shared information."

"So Messer decided to take out the clinic? What was the point? And what about the little punks that attacked the clinic?" Grant searched through the records again, hoping against hope to find something to prove them wrong.

John shrugged, "When the boys were interviewed again, it turns out they were all in high school together. They were paid to turn things upside down."

"The leader?"

"The one you missed? A teacher at the school. Michael Joseph Reagan. We don't know his connection yet to the Luccheses."

Flack frowned. The first time, his eyes had just gone over that name. Now, there was a buzzing in the back of his brain; there was some connection he knew he should be making.

When his phone rang, he knew from the kick in his gut that thinking was going to be put on the back burner.

"Monroe, gotta go. There's a break in the Chance case."

"Let's move."

The two men moved so fast they barely registered that Grant had grabbed his badge and gun and was following them out of the building.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY

"Linds, Stella, we gotta go."

"Danny? What's up?" Lindsay held onto Danny's arm as Stella quickly secured the evidence they had.

"Mac wants us to meet him," Danny would not quite meet Lindsay's eyes again, but this time she refused to be gentle about it.

"What the hell is going on?" She wasn't sure if it was her hands or his body that was shaking.

Instead of answering, Danny hit _replay_ and put his phone on speaker.

"_Daniel? The girl Taylor is looking for. You'll find her at the warehouse where the kid was left. Hurry. And … be careful. They are armed and …"_

They hit the elevator at the same time as Hawkes and Mac, and the ride down was tense and silent. Danny and Lindsay were at the back of the elevator car when the other three moved out in formation, but Lindsay grabbed him by the arm when Danny would have followed.

"Who called?"

He looked down at his feet. "Antony Messer. My father."

She let go of him suddenly. And all he could feel was the chill of her loss.

"Messer, with me. Monroe, with Stella and Hawkes. Let's move." Mac was barking orders to the teams which would swiftly be converging from all parts of the city on the abandoned warehouse they had raided only days earlier.

"Flack? What's your ETA?"

"Three minutes, Mac. We have SWAT and search teams coming. Do not go into the building. Repeat, Taylor. Do NOT go into the building."

Mac shut off the intercom on Flack's insistent voice.

"Danny, what kind of firepower could your uncle have?" He said, remote and controlled.

Danny swallowed hard. "Mac, I'm sorry …"

"Not now. Not now. I need you here, with me, Danny. Now focus. What kind of actual firepower could Gino Messer come up with?"

Danny shoved everything else aside, and concentrated on the job in front of him. "He has a crew of about ten, although he's lost the Taglias. If the Luccheses are actually in this with him, there could be twenty or more. But if he's been branching out on his own, then he'll be down to about eight. But they'll be loaded for bear, Mac."

They pulled into the alley behind the warehouse, lights on but sirens silent. Men in Kevlar vests were congregated in groups, receiving or awaiting orders. Flack turned when the CSIs joined him. John Monroe, without a word, stepped up beside Lindsay, and she smiled up at him a little tremulously. Danny did not acknowledge him at all, focusing intently on the computer screen linked to surveillance cameras.

"We have ten people inside the building," Flack started, pointing to the screen. "We have visual confirmation on five of them, all in this space here. We scanned the building with heat sensors set up as well, so we can tell that there are two more here, separated from the others by one floor, in a confined space, maybe an office. One more wandering – he's been up and down the stairs already. Maybe a patrol." He indicated that on the screen as well. "There is one person in a room alone, on the top floor. Small – could be Natalie."

"One person standing ten feet away from that one – a guard, maybe?" Stella said.

Flack nodded, "There's one way in. If someone can get to the roof, there is a ventilation shaft which ends at that room. Once someone is in there with her, Natalie should be safe."

"Better if we can get her out without anyone knowing."

"How big is the shaft?" Mac said, eyes coolly monitoring every flicker of movement, figuring angles and possibilities.

"Too small for most of our guys," Flack shook his head. "We're calling to another unit, one with some women on the team."

Lindsay opened her mouth, but Danny stepped in front of her. "No way," he hissed.

"I'll do it, Mac," she spoke up a little louder than she had probably planned, her eyes steady on Danny's.

"Lindsay, you're not trained…" John started, but stopped when she faced him.

"And you have no authority here, Special Agent. And neither do you, Detective. I can do it, Mac." She held out a hand to Flack, "I need a vest. I have my weapon."

He opened his mouth to argue, then snapped it shut as Stella muffled an exclamation pointing to a blip on the screen which was moving fast, "Flack! Could that be a lookout?"

"Shit. They could've spotted us. Linds, be careful. Perrino, take her up and stay with her." He nodded to a SWAT member who shrugged and went to grab a Kevlar vest. Lindsay followed him without a backward glance.

"No, Danny, she's the only one who can get in there." Flack put out a hand, catching Danny in the chest before the other man could stop her.

"Suit up, Danny. We're going in next." When Mac looked at the young man in front of him, he was a bit shamed to see the shocked glazed look on his face, but he quickly stamped on any sympathy. They all had a job to do, and Lindsay Monroe was fully qualified to do the job she had chosen.

Danny stood, frozen for a moment, his eyes glued to the corner of the building where Lindsay was listening intently to the SWAT lieutenant who was briefing her on the inner workings of the ventilation system. He began to walk towards to her, breaking into a run as she nodded in understanding, inserting the earpiece that would keep her in contact with the team outside.

He laid a hand on her arm just as she reached for the bottom rung of the ladder. "Give us a second, Perrino."

The young man stepped back at the pain in the detective's voice.

"Don't," Lindsay said under her breath. "I have to …"

Danny didn't bother to say anything, just covered her mouth with hers and kissed her breathless. "Be careful. Come back with the girl."

She looked at him with her heart in her eyes, and kissed him once, quickly, hard. Then without a look over to shoulder to be sure Perrino was following her, she began to clamber up the access ladder on the side of the building to the roof.


	53. Chapter 53: Rescue Me

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY. Poetry not otherwise referenced is original._

_A/N: Thanks as always to all those who have written to tell me what they like and didn't like in the story so far. And thanks to those who continue to read along, following the adventures._

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

* * *

_Now the Silence_

_It was a flash of movement and colour and noise_

_And now the world has stopped revolving,_

_And the wind has died down._

_It was a sudden flurry of activity and flailing emotion_

_And now the eye of the storm is upon us_

_And the air is still and heavy._

_A moment ago, the heart was pounding, the breath heaving_

_And now lungs will not expand to fill with air_

_The heart is afraid to beat._

_There was, a moment ago, no time left to think._

_Now there is nothing to think about._

* * *

Chapter 53: Rescue Me

It was a multi-pronged attack, with several agencies involved. It should have been a strategic disaster, given the egos involved, but for once every man there sublimated his need for control, and within seconds of Lindsay's whispered confirmation that she was on the roof and prepared to go down the shaft, the operation was underway.

One team of SWAT was at the back door awaiting orders, while others took up positions around the perimeter, weapons trained on windows and access points. Uniformed officers were securing the neighbourhood, moving out anyone who might possibly be in danger. Hawkes and a technician were glued to the computer monitors; surveillance monitors had been planted at doors and windows – cell and wireless transmissions were being tracked. Lindsay was wired, and Hawkes could see her signal moving through the ventilation system.

"She's getting close," he warned. "Hold up a moment, Linds. Let's get you some cover before you go in."

"Let me get a little closer – I don't want them coming after her if things go wrong." Her voice echoed in the close quarters of the ventilation shaft.

"Right." Flack said. "Mac, Stella, and Danny, you're with me – we're going up the side of the building. There's an access door to the third floor – it will get us closer to the office where the two are hunkered down. SWAT will secure the gang members on the first floor once we give them the signal. Monroe, your team goes straight for the third floor – that's where Natalie is. If Lindsay can't get her out the way she got in, you'll need to extract them both."

John Monroe nodded grimly.

Flack took a deep breath, and glanced once at Stella, but couldn't think of a thing to say. "Let's do this."

Flack and his team did not even pause; after getting up the building, they moved through the second floor, checking corners to be sure the electronic surveillance had not missed anyone. The four of them moved swiftly and efficiently, Flack receiving a steady stream of information through his headset from Hawkes.

"Two guards moving in the building," he said to Mac in an undertone, "Two still in the office around the corner down this hallway. Linds has got to Natalie – they are going to try to get back up to the roof."

Mac nodded and motioned Danny and Flack to one side of the door, while Stella and he went down the hallway to another door. When they were all in place, Flack held up his hand to hold them in place, hearing voices coming from the office.

"Antony. Tell me. What have you done?"

Danny glanced at Flack and mouthed, "Uncle Gino."

"I don't know what you are talking about, Gino. What could I have done?"

Flack's eyes widened as he focused on Danny's white face. Antony Messer did not sound good, and if Gino's caressing voice was any indication, his brother was the one who had inflicted the pain they could hear. He shook his head violently as Danny made a move as if to go in the door. He couldn't tell yet where Gino was, but he was sure both men would be armed, and there were still eight men unaccounted for in the building. He needed his teams in place first.

"You let the kid go, didn't you, Antony? Loosened his hands and gave him back his phone so the cops could come to the rescue. Why would you betray me like that? I'm your brother. I protected you all these years, and now, when we are one step away from getting it all, you stab me in the back?"

They could hear Antony coughing a little as if in pain. "No. I mean, yes; I let the kid go. Taylor would have taken you down if he had found out you were involved, Gino. When I found out the kid was connected to Daniel's boss, I knew we had to get the kid out of here. I just wanted to keep you from making a mistake."

"My little brother. Always protecting me." Gino's voice was cold and smooth. Danny flinched as he heard the snap of a hand across a face. "And always screwing up. You think I'm afraid of Mac Taylor? You and that precious son of yours think he is such a hero. Well, I know a thing or two about Taylor. And about the Flack kid. A little information goes a long way, Tony."

The men listening on the other side of the door could hear a shuddering breath, the sharp tap of polished shoes against linoleum floors. Flack looked down the hallway again to check Mac and Stella's position; he had to look away from her anguished stare.

Gino Messer's voice started up again, "I needed that bitch Garrett to back off just long enough for me to shut down the clinic operation. I needed a little more time, and the kid was going to buy me that. But then you had to discover your noble side. Fuck, Antony. Can't you do anything right? Can't control your woman. Can't control your boys: lost one to the Bonnanos and one to the cops. Can't even stay loyal to your family."

Every sentence was punctuated with another sharp slap of skin on skin.

"I've carried you long enough. You know me, Tone. I don't keep deadwood. Tag screwed up, and I took him out. I cleaned up the remnants of the Tanglewood mess you let go too long. Joe Taglia will be taken care of by tonight. The girl has become a liability – we'll take care of her before we leave. But there is just one last thing to take care of, brother mine…"

Flack could have sworn Danny was moving before they heard the click of the gun hammer being drawn back. Everything seemed to slow down, and he could track, heartbeat by heartbeat, each move: Danny going through the door, his gun held at the ready; Mac and Stella bursting through the other door to the office, identifying themselves and shouting at Gino Messer to put up his gun; Flack himself screaming orders to his men to move in on the gang; Lindsay's voice loud and panicky in his earphone as the sound of a gun cracked through the still air.

Mac had Gino Messer flat, face crushed against the floor. Stella was covering the guard who had come racing up the stairs at the sound of the bullet being fired.

And Danny was huddled in the corner of the room, arms cradling his father, hands frantically pressed against the rapidly widening stain of blood across Antony's chest.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY

"Two dead. One of the poker players went for his gun when SWAT hit the main floor. The second guard tried to rush us; Mac took him out. Gino Messer is on the way to the precinct for questioning; his shark will be meeting us there. Antony Messer is on his way to Queen of Mercy; Danny's riding with him." Flack's rapid debrief was cool and detached, but Lindsay was not fooled.

"How bad is it?" Her voice was so soft he had to bend down to hear her.

"Bad. Mac has sent an officer to pick up Maureen Messer now. We're hoping she'll make it the hospital in time."

Lindsay looked over the head of Hawkes, who had gently stepped in and taken over for the EMT assigned to bandage her hands; that ventilation shaft had been harder to go back up than get down, especially with the added terror of gunfire behind her and a traumatized teenager in front of her. She winced as her shoulder stabbed with pain; climbing with a still healing collar bone had seemed easy given the alternative, but she would pay for it now, she knew.

Mac came over to the ambulance and smiled wearily down at Lindsay, "You okay?"

She nodded.

"You should be getting a ticker tape parade, you know. Good job, Lindsay. We couldn't have gone in until we were sure she was safe." He glanced over his shoulder as the other ambulance – now loaded with Natalie tucked in on a stretcher, IV fluids pumping – sped away with the sirens blaring.

"Not an emergency," he reminded himself. "Just a precaution, that's all." He had already called Reed and told him which hospital to get to. Queen of Mercy was becoming an all too familiar meeting ground for his team.

Lindsay jumped off the back of the ambulance. "I need to get to Danny. He's going to need … support, for when his mother gets there."

Before Flack could say anything, John Monroe loomed up. "I'll take her."

The other men nodded. Jurisdiction was coming into play: kidnapping was a Federal offense, and so Monroe, as the FBI liaison, would have a place in the interrogation and investigation. But until Antony Messer's condition was known, there was no percentage in rushing off to talk to Gino. He'd lawyered up before they had the handcuffs on him.

Stella strode over, long legs eating up the ground. She had pulled her hair back when donning her Kevlar vest, and without the softened curls, her face looked stripped for action, somehow. Although his vision was graying slightly around the edges with stress and exhaustion, Flack was struck by the power she projected, as if her strength had a physical presence. Behind her, a few steps back and a little distant, Special Agent Troy Grant stood on the edges, and something about his stance, and Stella's presence, and Flack's awareness of Danny's torment all came together …

"Shit!"

At the harsh exclamation, every hand dropped to a gun butt, and eyes monitored the area coldly. When no immediate danger presented itself, Mac looked at him with a slight scowl, then more sharply, "What is it?"

"Mac, remember that list Danny came up with – the one with all the different connections between everything that's been going on?"

Both Mac and Lindsay nodded; they had both examined the scribbled mind map Danny had worked on when sleep was impossible.

"He had Gino Messer on there. And Nikki …"

"His cousin," Lindsay explained to John, who was waiting more or less patiently for someone to connect the dots for him.

"And Nikki's boyfriend. Seph Reagan." Flack said it slowly, then, when no one immediately registered, he looked at first Stella, then John and said slowly, "Father Anthony Reagan's cousin: Michael Joseph Reagan."

Grant stepped forward, "The teacher. The one that got away at the clinic."

"He set the boys up. He set up the trouble at the clinic – to make it look like terrorist activity." Hawkes spoke up. "Misdirecting us towards Nasreen? Or the men from the neighbourhood – the ones who stand outside the clinic?"

"Or anyone really, other than Messer. The clinic was on several watch lists." Grant's normal bluster was slightly toned down now.

"So, if Reagan set up the clinic attacks – including the bomb?" Flack looked at the team and saw no immediate argument about it, "Then what is the next target? Or who?"

"Maybe Gino's arrest will stop him?" Grant said.

Every other head around the circle shook, some more forcefully than others. "Only if Messer really was working alone," John pointed out. "I'm not sure we can count on that. If the Luccheses really were behind it all, then Reagan may still have a goal to accomplish."

"We need to get to the hospital. The rest of the Messer family is an obvious target." Lindsay urged, her eyes wide and scared.

Flack and Monroe looked at each other over Lindsay's head, then turned with one accord to Troy Grant.

"Yes," John said quietly. "The Messer family. All of it."

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY

Nikki looked up from her computer and smiled as a red carnation was dropped in front of the screen.

"Seph? What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be in class? It's not even two o'clock!"

She wound her arms around his neck as he pulled her up against his body and kissed her thoroughly.

"Take a coffee break," he said a little breathlessly.

She giggled and looked around at her suddenly very busy co-workers at the travel agency. "Baby, I can't. I have two clients coming in this afternoon to book big holidays. I need the commission."

He rested his forehead against hers for a minute. "Come with me, just for a minute. I need to talk to you."

She cupped his face with her hands. "Seph? Honey, what is it? Are you okay?"

"No. You have to come with me, Nikki. Please?"

She looked at him again, and everything in her stilled. Without another word, she reached down for her purse and coat, and said, "Helen, could you take the Cristos and Pallatinas appointments this afternoon for me, please? You'll find the information on my computer; it's not passworded. The Cristos can be talked up by at least 30; Pallatinas, probably no more than five. Okay?"

Helen nodded her vivid red head, and snapped her gum thoughtfully, watching as the couple walked out of the office, Nikki held tightly to Seph's side.

So when the police showed up a few hours later to ask where Nikki Messer was, Helen was able to say with a fair degree of accuracy that she had always thought there was something funny about that Seph Reagan, and she couldn't really say she was surprised that Nikki Messer had got herself into trouble.


	54. Chapter 54: Visiting Hours

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY. Poetry not otherwise referenced is original._

_A/N: Can you feel it winding up? This story has been going on long enough, don't you think? Just a few loose ends to tie together! _

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

* * *

_ A Simple Act of (un)Kindness_

_How could it be, that I could not love you?_

_I held you in my arms and felt _

_Nothing._

_How could it be that I could not thrill to your touch,_

_Wonder at the sweet perfection of you?_

_How is it that I could look at you with indifference,_

_With something akin to horror rather than fear?_

_I am damned and cursed into Hell forever,_

_Like the monsters of old who became a byword for _

_Evil so great it could not be explained, _

_Only named for the perpetrator._

_How could it be, that I could not love you,_

_When you were mine to care for and nurture?_

_And how can it be that even now, _

_I can live with the knowledge?_

_For I did not love you._

_SMT2007_

* * *

Chapter 54: Visiting Hours

On the way to the hospital, Lindsay was finding it hard to breathe. John and Hawkes, who were driving with her, both seemed to know that she needed time to think about what she was likely to be dealing with when she finally got there.

"Let's face it," Lindsay thought, struggling to keep from screaming at Hawkes to drive even faster, "He's already tried to step away from me for my own good. More than once. What am I going to do if his father dies? How am I going to face his mother? What will I do if he pushes me away again?"

Finally Hawkes, frustrated, hit the sirens and lights to get through a crowded intersection, and simply left them on to get to Queen of Mercy as fast as they could.

With Hawkes in the lead, the Monroes were directed to the Trauma room, but once they had reached it, a nurse came out to meet them.

"Detectives? I'll have to ask you to wait here, please."

"Mr. Messer? Is he going to be okay?" Lindsay pleaded, but the nurse's cool professionalism said it all; the patient was not expected to survive.

"His family is with him now. I'm very sorry, but you'll have to wait."

Lindsay turned away, her heart twisting bitterly. Not family. Of course not. She wasn't family.

John put a gentle arm around her. "Linds, I'm going to go get you something to eat, okay?'

Her heart twisted again, remembering her brothers sneaking food into her at the hospital in Bozeman as she waited by Danny's bed for him to wake up. When John shook her a little, she looked up and saw his eyes, compassionate and worried, on her face, so she smiled as best she could and said, "Thank you, John. Coffee, at least, would be good now."

The nurse spoke up, "There's a good coffee shop just across the street, sir. Most of us go there if we can spare a minute or two."

John looked at Lindsay, one eyebrow raised, taking in her nod. "I'll be back in a few minutes, okay?"

Hawkes stepped aside to speak to the nurse for a minute, coming back to take Lindsay's hands in his. "Linds, they are talking to the doctors about taking Mr. Messer off life support. It will be a while, I think."

She looked at him blankly a moment, then blinked, suddenly realizing where they were. "Sheldon, go to Nasreen. Find out what's happening."

He shook his head, "I'll stay with you. They'll page me if there are any changes."

She shook his hands from hers, "Please? Go see her. Come back and give me good news, okay?" Lindsay hadn't met Nasreen, but she had seen Hawkes' face when he talked about her, and that told her everything she needed to know.

He frowned, "I don't want to leave you here by yourself."

She smiled as much as she could through stiff lips, and said, "I'm going to go sit in the chapel for a few minutes anyway, Hawkes. I need to … I just need to …"

"It's okay." He nodded understandingly. "You'll feel better if you take a little time, Lindsay. I'll leave a message for your brother. You go on – it's just down the hall and to your right."

Once in the small "Inter-faith Reflection Space", Lindsay slipped into a pew in a dark corner and closed her eyes. She wasn't sure if the desperate thoughts swirling through her head could really be called prayers, but she hoped God or whoever was listening to her would be able to work out what she was trying to say.

Images came to her of Danny: in the field, where he could flip seamlessly between professionalism and teasing banter; in her apartment, where he had torn her heart in half and mended it within one kiss; in her hospital room, staring down at her after Ross Adams had tried to kill her with a morphine overdose; at the cabin, trudging out in the snow storm to bring in wood for the fire, puzzling over how to split the largest log with the knot in the centre.

Danny, blood pooling on the floor at his feet, but standing with his gun in hand ready to protect her.

Danny, crying out in Italian, waking from a dream that left him drained and shaking.

"Ma. Ma. Talk to me."

Lindsay opened her eyes, and shrunk into the corner at the sound of voices. She wiped the tears off her face; she was not ready to face anyone else.

"Ma. I'm sorry. I tried, Ma, I tried to get to him in time."

Lindsay looked up in shock as the voice reverberated through her. Danny was following a woman up the aisle of the small room, automatically crossing himself as they stopped at the first set of chairs, even though there was no cross in the room.

"I will not talk to you. First you kill your brother, and now your father. You are a curse, Daniel Messer, as you have been since before you were born." The woman's voice was calm and ice-cold, and Lindsay could see Danny's face grow bone-white.

He did not argue or step away from her, though, and Lindsay wondered with an ache in her heart how often he had heard similar statements from his mother.

"He was doing the right thing, Ma. I want you to know that. He was trying to protect a girl, a young girl who Uncle Gino involved in something she had nothing to do with. Dad was doing the right thing."

"And look at what it got him. Going against Gino. What was he thinking? Gino always gets what he wants. Always did. Your father learned that years ago. What made him think this would be any different?'"

Danny sat in a pew behind his mother, who was now kneeling, clutching something, Lindsay thought it was a rosary, in her hands, and speaking rapidly under her breath.

"Ma. What do you mean? Uncle Gino gets everything he wants?"

"Once it was me."

The words were so quiet, Lindsay wouldn't have known for sure she had heard correctly if Danny hadn't stiffened.

His mother went on as if he was not in the room. "Before Louie. He came to me, told me he loved me. Told me he'd have married me himself, but Angela was already pregnant again. So he took me." The woman shook her head, but her voice did not change. "I gave myself to him. He said he loved me."

Danny sat forward, his head bent, hands clasped before him as if in prayer.

"Then Louie came, and Gino told Antony. So Antony never knew for sure if Louie was his or Gino's."

There was silence for several moments. Lindsay, still shadowed in the corner, almost forgot to breathe again.

"When Louie was two, Antony decided he would be sure of the next one. He locked me in our room for two weeks. Never left me alone. Took me until he was sure I was breeding."

Now Maureen's head came up a little, but her voice remained calm and uninflected. "With you. His Daniel. His son."

Danny did not move, did not speak.

Maureen looked up at the symbol at the front of the room, a sort of flame rising to the roof, and her lip twisted resentfully. "When I fell, he sent for his mother to be my jailer. Make sure his son was born healthy."

Danny voice came out on a thread of agony, "Mommy? Did you … try to get rid of the baby – of me?"

Maureen shrugged indifferently. "I fell," she repeated.

"Did you ever love him? Did you ever love me?"

Silent tears tore through Lindsay at the sound of her proud and confident Danny begging abjectly, but Maureen merely shrugged again and put her head down on her hands, her lips moving in prayer as her fingers read the beads.

Danny stood and staggered towards the door. As his hand reached for the handle, Lindsay touched him, her eyes filled with tears and love and an anger that radiated off her like heat.

It was a risk; she knew it was. He was as likely to turn on her, or turn away, as to turn to her. But it was a risk she had to take: a risk she was prepared to gamble the rest of her life on.

And as they stepped through the door together, Danny collapsed into her arms, and she held his shuddering body close against hers and murmured soft words of love and comfort.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY

"Sheldon. Thank God!" Kathleen stood up from the chair beside Nasreen's bed, pushing her red curls out of her face. "She's been conscious off and on for the past few hours. The neurologist says it is a good sign; if she can stay awake for an hour or two at a time, they will discharge her to go home." Tears streaked down her cheeks in well-accustomed paths, Hawkes could see.

He put a hand on her shoulder. "Kathleen, you really need to go home and sleep. You had your own scare, you know, and it has been a terrible day."

She brushed an impatient hand over her face, and said, "I'm fine. If I could just keep her awake for a little longer, Sheldon. Miriam has gone to talk to the doctors and figure out what kind of care she would need, but if we can't keep her awake, she'll have to stay here, and I know she doesn't want to…"

"Kathleen."

The voice was scratchy and barely above a whisper, but it was undeniably Nasreen's soft French- Canadian accent and it stopped Kathleen cold.

"Oh darling, you're awake again. Please Reeni, stay awake for me. Just a little while. If you do, Miriam and I can take you home with us."

Nasreen lifted a heavy hand to brush against Kathleen's wet cheek.

"I'll stay awake if you go home and sleep, Kathleen. I'll be fine here overnight. If you'll sleep until morning prayers, I'll stay awake."

Kathleen giggled a little, and Hawkes knew he had missed an in-joke. He didn't care though; Kathleen looked slightly relieved, and Nasreen was lucid and calm.

Miriam came bustling into the room in time to hear Nasreen's words, and from the grin on her face, she understood the joke as well. "You scared the living daylights out of us, you know. I am so glad you are awake." She wrapped her arms around Nasreen carefully.

Hawkes stepped back to let the three women re-connect, and leaned against the wall by the window to simply stare at Nasreen. She was grey with exhaustion and pain, her eyes heavy with the drugs she was on. Her lips were pale and tight. Her hands twitched nervously, and he could see from the heart monitor that the beat was heavy and irregular. Her hair had been pulled back severely from her face, and bandages covered part of her forehead and jaw.

He thought she had never looked more fragile, or more lovely.

It seemed hours, but he knew it was minutes only before Miriam and Kathleen took their leave of her, promising to return in the morning to take her home, promising to stock the kitchen with all her favourite foods, and rent all her favourite chick-flicks. She smiled as she waved them out, then turned her head to look at Hawkes with a deep sigh.

"So, Doctor? Tell me you are here as a criminalist, and not as an ME."

The joke was the final straw. Hawkes put his head down on the bed beside Nasreen and finally let loose the control he had been holding onto for hours now, maybe days.

One hand was clasped in his, and the other stroked through his short hair as she murmured soft words of comfort. When he finally lifted his head, her eyes were full of tears, but her face was serene.

As always, he thought. Calm always. Did any of it touch her? Or had she left strong emotions, personal connections, behind her when Amir had been gunned down in front of her by people too cowardly to step up to his face?

"I'm sorry about the clinic, Nasreen." He spoke carefully, not sure what else to say.

"The children? They were safe? Unharmed?"

He went through the details of what had been destroyed, and who had been harmed, sent home with bandages and a Trauma bear. He was sure that both Miriam and Kathleen had told her already, but knew that she would want constant reassurance until she could see the children for herself.

"And do you know who did this, Sheldon? Can you tell me anything about why our clinic was destroyed?" Her eyes were begging him for answers, but he hesitated. Although he had not been told to keep the information secret, the investigation was not yet complete, and Nasreen was involved, if no longer either a specific target or a suspect.

He saw it before he heard the sigh: the utter despondency of the exile, one who believes she will always be 'other', always be kept on the outside.

"Perhaps I should not have asked."

He sat up on the bed beside her, resting a foot on the chair he had been sitting on a moment before, and took both her hands in his.

"It wasn't political, Nasreen. Not the way you are thinking – not the way we were all thinking. It was about drugs and control."

Quickly, he explained the barest facts about organized crime in the city, some of which Nasreen knew from her own experience and observation. Some of it seemed to her to be mere Hollywood hype, but Hawkes assured her it was all true.

"So, the clinic was in the centre of the present fight, and Gino Messer decided he had to deflect attention after Caitlin's death. One of his … associates, Joseph Reagan, is a high school science teacher. He convinced the boys to do the run-through and generally shake things up."

"But did that not simply focus the police on the clinic even more than before?" Nasreen may have taken a knock on the head, thought Hawkes, but it hadn't hurt her ability to see through a situation clearly.

"I would think so. Gino may not have been happy about that little game; we don't know, and he isn't talking. But Reagan had a plan, I think. Having captured the interest of Homeland Security, he decided to do something that would confirm their belief that everything had something to do with home-grown terrorists. As a chemistry teacher, he would certainly have been able to figure out a simple pipe bomb."

And used the Zoo Poo fertilizer from St Augustine's, he thought, thus tying everything back to the church, whether he had meant to or not. One more thing for Flack to work out with his friend Tony Reagan.

Nasreen was quiet for a moment, her fingers entwined with his. "So it had nothing to do with me? Nothing to do with us, the local Muslims? Nothing to do with us providing abortions?"

Hawkes shook his head. "Nothing at all. None of it, Nasreen. You were just easy targets in the centre of the area they wanted to control. That's all."

And now the calm Hawkes had thought to never see broken was swept away in an avalanche of fear, anger, and sorrow. As she cried against him, as he soothed and comforted and stroked her hair in his turn, he heard his mother singing in the depths of his mind:

_All my trials, Lord, soon be over._


	55. Chapter 55: Forgive Us

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY. Poetry not otherwise referenced is original._

_A/N: Thanks to all the people who have put this story on alerts or on favourites: I take it as a great compliment that you are following along. Thanks to all who have dropped a line, or put the effort into writing a review – you are the reason this story has become what it is._

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

* * *

_Trespassers Will Be Persecuted_

Our Father,

_(swift hand in punishing anger)_

Who art in heaven

_(far away and out of reach)_

Hallowed be thy Name

_(not Jesus Fucking Christ, then?)_

Thy kingdom come

_(as if you don't control all already)_

Thy will be done

_(or else)_

On earth as it is in heaven

_(the curse of everlasting life) _

Give us this day our daily bread

_(dry, with water, for dinner. Again)_

And forgive us our trespasses,

_(what did I do wrong?)_

As we forgive those who trespass against us.

_(what would forgiveness look like?)_

And lead us not into temptation,

_(over and over)_

But deliver us from evil.

_(delivered into evil)_

For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory,

_(and the pain and the hunger and the anger and the hatred)_

for ever and ever.

_(and ever, and ever, and ever)_

Amen.

_(So be it)_

**Chapter 55: Forgive Us**

"Natalie? Natalie! Omigod, are you okay? Did they hurt you? I am so sorry, baby, so so sorry…" Reed's voice broke as he buried his face against Natalie's shoulder, holding onto her for dear life.

Natalie's face, always pale, went dead white as Reed's arms went around her, but she bit her lip, obviously accepting the pain in favour of comforting her distraught boyfriend.

"Reed." Mac said softly. "Let her breathe." He put a gentle hand on the boy's stiff shoulder.

"God, I'm sorry. Did I hurt you?" Reed eased back, but Natalie would not let him go far.

"Yes. No. It doesn't matter. Hold onto me, okay?" Her voice was hoarse; her eyes were sparkling with tears.

Mac pulled up a chair. "Natalie, I'm sorry. I have to ask you some questions while things are still fresh in your mind. Do you want to wait until your parents are here?'

Natalie shook her head. "They're away, in Maine. The hospital called them – they are on their way back. They were supposed to be gone a week. I guess that's why no one noticed I was …" Her voice died off.

Reed's face went deep red with suppressed mortification. "I should have checked. I should have phoned to make sure you got home safely. I'm so sorry, babe. I'm sorry."

She rested her head against his, putting her fingers over his mouth. "Not your fault. I was the one who knew you were being followed in the first place. I should have known – should have guessed he would go after me next."

Mac sat back in the uncomfortable chair he had placed beside the bed. "We had people following you. They failed. I apologize to you both."

Natalie shivered at the bleak look in Mac's eyes. She would not want to be the one who had to report failure to Detective Mac Taylor.

"So, let's get the information we need to catch this guy and make sure it never happens again, okay? Natalie, what happened on the bus?"

Natalie sat back against the pillows on the raised hospital bed, hands still tightly wound in Reed's. With Mac gently but inexorably leading her through it, she recounted the slight touch on her arm which had left her dizzy and disoriented, the oh-so-helpful young man who had helped her off the bus, the waiting car, the silent ride through the darkened city streets, the waking to a small room with a bucket in one corner, a jug of water, and a handful of granola bars.

"They never talked to you? Never told you what was going on?"

Natalie shook her head. "No. From the time I woke up in the room until Detective Monroe came through the ventilation shaft, no one talked to me."

Mac watched her hands carefully, but there was no nervous movement, no anguished wringing suggesting she was masking something. He nodded briskly and stood up. "I'm glad you are okay, Natalie." He bestowed one of his rare smiles on her, and enchanted, she smiled back.

Reed had not taken his eyes off her as she talked, but when Mac went to leave the room, he dropped a swift kiss on each of Natalie's hands and muttered, "I'll be back in a moment."

He caught up to Mac just outside the door, and closed it carefully behind him. "Mac, you don't think they'll come after her again?"

Mac shook his head. "I don't think so, Reed. We'll be looking for the one that followed you and snatched Natalie, but the man who set this all up is in custody. He's not likely to be active for some time."

Reed frowned thoughtfully. "Can you tell me…?" His voice trailed off as Mac shook his head again, more firmly this time.

"Let us handle it, okay, Reed? This is Officer Atherton. She will be outside Natalie's door until we determine that she is safe. No one is to go in or out of this room unless they have been IDed, Officer. Even doctors and nurses are not to be left alone with the patient. If they argue, deny them access."

If he could have relaxed his face muscles enough, Reed would have smiled at the military precision with which Officer Atherton responded. He grabbed Mac's arm tightly with one hand. "Is she still in danger? You said she wasn't."

Mac turned to his step-son and put one hand on his shoulder, "Reed, I don't think that Natalie is in danger. I really don't. But I am not going to take any more chances, with her or with you. Officer Montiveo will be your shadow," he nodded his head at a young officer standing at attention on the other side of the hallway. "Stick with him until I tell you differently, okay? I want you to stay safe."

Reed slumped against the door. "I'll be careful," he promised.

Mac smiled and squeezed Reed's shoulder in a quick sketch of a hug. "You won't have a choice."

Reed grimaced as he heard the swift tapping of a woman's power shoes coming down the hall.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY

The nurse had handed him Hawkes' note, and now all John could do was sit and wait. The problem was, he wasn't sure whom he was waiting for, or why.

Lindsay was off somewhere with Danny, he was sure. He had cruised down the hallway and glanced in the room where Antony Messer was still hooked up to machines that breathed for him and kept his heart pumping. No grieving family members, no nurses monitoring him, just a uniformed cop standing grim and silent at the door.

John shivered involuntarily. A clean shot, a quick death – that's all he hoped for when he went.

He wandered back to the waiting room, but Lindsay hadn't shown up yet, and he was reluctant to go looking for her. Wherever she was, whatever she was dealing with, he hoped that Danny was with her, and that they would come out of this together. No matter how he felt about his baby sister being with any man, Danny had gone through the fire for her more than once since John had met him, only a few weeks ago, and John knew their imprint on each other was strong.

He had been worried about Lindsay when she had gone up the side of the building, worried about what he would tell their mother if she got hurt. But he had recognized the look on her face when she had told him to back off, too. There was no role for him there any more. All he had a right to do was fetch her a rapidly cooling cup of coffee and some kind of plastic pastry with chocolate spread on it from the coffee shop.

He closed his eyes for a moment, and began to run through the case in his head. Was there anything left to tie up? Reagan was gone, with Nikki Messer in tow. His office had tracked their movements to the Port Authority, and then lost them. Reagan must have had an exit plan: new identities, money, tickets out of the country. They would find him eventually. Maybe.

"Hey, Monroe. Sleeping on the job?"

John opened his eyes to see Flack gulping down some of the coffee, making a face when he tasted the sugar and cream Lindsay favored.

"I would have pegged you for a black coffee drinker."

"I am," John answered coolly, "Lindsay, though, prefers something a little mellower." He motioned to the cup. "She disappeared before I could give it to her."

Flack shrugged and took another swig. "She'll be with Messer somewhere. How's his father?"

John simply shook his head, and Flack's face went pale and cold. He sighed and put down the empty coffee cup.

"Okay, where are we?"

"Grant didn't seem all that surprised. I wonder if he knew before?"

Flack shrugged again. "He'd have had a background check before getting into your outfit, wouldn't he? If it was that easy to find, he'd have had to know."

John sat forward, his hands between his knees. "It wasn't easy to find. And it certainly wasn't in his files. My clearance is pretty high and I couldn't find anything. It was only the stuff old man Mauser could remember that helped me work it out."

"But you said Sassone knew?" Flack sat forward too, their voices automatically dropping.

"The grandfather, not the father. Yeah, I think so. He seems to have been tracking the kid from birth. I wonder if Maureen Messer knew anything, or had been in touch with the Sassones at all?"

Flack sat back, his eyes flickering down the hall to where Antony Messer lay. "Not maybe the best time to ask."

John shook his head as well, his face grim. "No. I guess not. And it may not make any difference. The guy is squeaky clean, Flack. No flags at all until now."

"So, you watch him." Flat voice, cold eyes.

"I watch him." Mirror image.

Flack put back his head and closed his eyes, stretching long legs and cramming his hands into his pockets.

"Where's Stella?" In the opposite bank of chairs, John mimicked his stance.

"Coming. Mac is checking up on Natalie and Reed – setting up their surveillance again, with a little more stick – so she went to report in. They'll all show up here soon, I'm sure." His weary voice didn't pick up at all; one small cold coffee, even loaded with sugar and some kind of topping, had done nothing to dispel the fog of exhaustion. He needed sleep, but as that was not likely, he needed food.

The hospital cafeteria was even worse than the precinct one, as he knew to his cost. The smell and muted green of the hospital corridors made his stomach ache anyway. Waking to the unrelievable pain of having his guts spread out all over the floor, to be put back together with a little Marine spit and polish and some office boy's shoelace – the memories never left; the nightmares could still bring him sitting up straight, sweating and panting, from a dead sleep. He knew he could expect at least one screaming horror of a night coming up.

"Any word on Antony Messer?"

Flack opened his eyes at the question. Mac and Stella strode down the hall together, steps in perfect sync. He had often wondered why the partners had not simply taken that next logical step after Mac's wife died in the Towers. It was a common reaction for co-workers to become more, even without the added trauma of a loved one's death. He had never broached the subject with Stella. The thought that somehow he was a second-string player in the relationship league was one he was determined to bury as deep as possible. Who says de Nile was a bad place to live?

Unaware of the dark thoughts behind those deep blue eyes, or at least ascribing them to a different cause, Stella bent and unselfconsciously kissed Flack on the cheek as she sat beside him, taking his hand in hers, and handing him a sandwich wrapped in waxed paper from a nearby deli. It was the first time she had been so open about their bond, and he felt a bolt of gratitude shoot through his body.

"You okay?" She said it quietly, for his ears alone, and he grinned at her tiredly, unwrapping the sandwich.

"Will be."

She nodded, then turned her attention to John, who was listening intently to Mac's report on the status of the case.

"We put out a BOLO on Michael 'Seph' Reagan and Nikki Messer. He showed up at her workplace before 2 o'clock and they left together."

"Did she go willingly?' Stella asked.

Mac shrugged, "Witness said she was holding onto Reagan pretty tight, but no indication that she was under any duress. The Feds tracked them to the Port Authority; from there they have access to the common exits from the city: bus station, airports, trains, ports, even the ferries."

With a sigh, he accepted a sandwich from Stella as well, passing the first one to John, then unwrapping the next before continuing.

"Nothing under the names of Reagan or Messer, but we didn't have pictures until about fifteen minutes ago. They haven't been spotted at any of the expected places: homes, family."

Flack closed his eyes briefly again. One more apology to make to Tony Reagan.

John Monroe was nodding. "Nothing new reported by my teams. I suspect Reagan had a way out already planned. If he was coerced into playing with Messer's boys, he had to be aware of whom he was dealing with: Messer has upped his game considerably this past month. He's not leaving mistakes lying around for long." He looked at Flack for confirmation.

"Are you saying he took Nikki with him? As insurance or partner?"

Flack turned and looked over his shoulder, and his heart ached anew at Danny's exhausted, defeated face. But the criminalist's voice was strong, if heavy on the accent, and his hand was firmly grasped in Lindsay's.

Mac answered, "No way of knowing. I think she's safe though, Danny. Maybe one of the boys we interviewed tipped him off: he left school after lunch and went straight to Nikki's workplace."

Danny nodded thoughtfully. "She's a travel agent," he volunteered. "An escape route could have been set up weeks ago."

John sighed. "All we can do monitor for any activity on credit cards, that sort of thing."

Stella looked over at Mac. "What about Reed's shadow? Have you found out who he was?"

Mac frowned, "Disappeared. Messer is not talking about anything, and the thugs he had with him may actually have nothing but muscle between their ears. We're at a standstill."

Lindsay looked at Mac with a hint of challenge in her brown eyes, "Like you always say, Mac, there is always more the evidence can tell us. We haven't finished processing the room Natalie was held in, or the warehouse."

Mac looked up at her with a hint of apology in his worn face. "We've been taken off the case," he said gruffly.

Danny had been about to drop into a chair, but he straightened up swiftly. "What are you talking about, Mac? How can they yank us off this …" He stopped abruptly as Mac reached out and grabbed his arm.

"Danny. Danny. Let this go. We can hand it over. You need to be with your father now. You don't need to do any more."

Lindsay was amazed when Danny nodded once and collapsed back into the chair. She had been prepared for him to argue, to deny, to struggle against the bureaucratic restriction. She looked at Mac, then Stella, then Flack. Each face mirrored her worry. The sight of Danny Messer without any fight left was the most paralyzing one she had seen all day.

"Detective Taylor."

At the sound of that icy voice, every head rose. Maureen Messer stood in the doorway of the waiting room, her head held high, her eyes dead.

"I wanted to say congratulations, Detective. It took you a few years, but you finally succeeded, didn't you? You took Daniel a long time ago. Then Louie, and now Antony. It might not have seemed like much to you, but it was my family, everything I had. And now you've destroyed it all."

She came a little closer, and spat accurately and bitterly in Mac's direction. Her face crumpled, and she began to cry, deep tearing sobs that tore through her throat.

The men sat frozen in embarrassed silence, until Danny stood and walked to the window, staring out blindly. Mac pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his face absently. Flack grabbed Stella's hand as she leaped to her feet in defense of her friends.

In the end, it was Lindsay who silently stood up, put an arm around Maureen Messer's shoulder, and led her away, murmuring comforting words too quietly for anyone else to hear.


	56. Chapter 56: In the End

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY. Poetry not otherwise referenced is original._

_A/N: To all the people who have reviewed, or put this story on favourites or alerts, thank you for your continued interest. _

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

* * *

_**Passages**_

_Flight of soul across the barriers of time and space –_

_Hands touch, spirits meld, the world disappears._

_This is the time. This is the place_

_Where laid to rest are all our fears._

_A touch, a breath, a sigh, and it is done._

_The journey begun in hope is at an end._

_A touch, a breath, a sigh, and all are one._

_Companions now are more than friends._

_And the light that fills the unsullied soul_

_Shall spill over, unbound and whole,_

_And when the time is come at last_

_To lay down the burden and release the past,_

_Then vanished will be all the pain_

_And love is all that will remain._

_SMT2007_

* * *

**Chapter 56: In the End, This Alone is True**

The machines beeped, monitoring the final moments of life. The bag of saline emptied into the drip, counting out the last drops of nutrients the dying body would take in. Goodbyes had been said; tears had been wrung out of tired eyes. All the discussions had taken place; all the decisions had been made. It was time and more than time. The kidneys had shut down; the breathing was shallow and quick. Every so often, it would stop altogether, and the people in the room would hold their breath until the panting began again. His eyes were sunken; the pupils were fixed and glassy.

She sat at his bedside, holding his hand and praying softly. They had stayed together through everything: tragedy, joy, comfort, and pain. Sometimes she had thought she hated him. Sometimes she had known she loved him. Always she had turned and he was there, standing beside her. There was no shape in her life that did not include him somehow. She could not cry. This was too big for tears.

"Mom? The priest is here."

"Is it Anthony?" She answered absently, stroking her husband's hand.

Flack moved into his mother's line of sight. "Yes, Mom. It's Tony."

Dora looked up into Tony's face; it was set and strained, but he smiled at her, then crouched down beside her and said gently, "Mrs. Flack. It's time."

She nodded thoughtfully, then put a hand on the young priest's face. "I'm sorry that things have been so difficult this past few weeks."

He swallowed hard and glanced at Flack. "It has been difficult," he acknowledged. "But I have to believe that everything will work out according to God's plan."

Dora kissed him on the cheek. "Father Anthony, would you pray with Don, please?"

Tony nodded and sat beside the bed, taking Don Sr.'s hand in his and anointing his forehead and hands with holy oil in the sign of the Cross as he prayed quietly:

"_Go forth, O Christian soul, out of this world, in the name of God the Father almighty, who created you; in the name of Jesus Christ, the Son of the living God, who suffered for you; in the name of the Holy Spirit, who sanctified you; in the name of the holy and glorious Mary, Virgin and Mother of God; and in the name of the Angels, Archangels, Thrones and Dominions, Cherubim and Seraphim. May your place be this day in peace: through Christ our Lord."_

The people standing around the hospital bed murmured Amen in various tones, with differing degrees of piety and conviction.

Flack looked around the room from the corner where he had positioned himself when Tony had sat beside his father's wasted body. His sisters were grouped around the bed. Marie, the eldest of the girls, was by Dora's side as always. She was a born nurturer; a trained nurse, she managed a busy household with three small children and a husband Flack cordially despised, a carpenter who left ambition and prudence to his wife.

Dark-haired Cat was stroking her father's arm soothingly; they had always shared a special bond. She looked most like Dora, thought Flack objectively, and acted most like Don Sr., although she had chosen business over law enforcement.

Finally, there was Frannie, standing behind her mother: blonde, sweet, feckless, the perennial baby of the family and cherished for it. She worked with children and sometimes Flack wondered how anyone could tell who was supposed to be in charge. She was engaged to a teacher, and Flack predicted her own brood of blonde charmers would start arriving within a year of the wedding night.

He lifted his eyes to the last woman in the room. Stella was standing slightly apart from the family grouping around the bed, although everyone had accepted her without question as soon as Flack had introduced her. So they should, he thought; he had been talking about her long enough.

She looked up as if she felt his eyes on her, and they shared a look that, while restrained by the solemnity of what was happening, was nonetheless filled with the delight of connection. He was dazzled for a moment, and in that moment, his father's eyes flew open.

"Angelica?"

Dora sat forward, her eyes on Don Sr.'s. "Don. I'm here."

He looked at her and said, "Dora. She's come."

Dora was weeping, but she lifted his hand to her lips and kissed it. "Then go with her, my darling."

He closed his eyes and his breathing sped up again, shallow gasps that left everyone in the room feeling breathless.

For a long time, several minutes, his breathing would stop altogether, then return in a hurried rush. Father Tony stood up and turned to Flack, who had not left his place by the corner of the room. "Don. You should say good- bye."

Flack started to shake his head, but his sisters were already moving towards his father, each kissing him and whispering a few last words. Reluctantly, he sat in the chair Tony had vacated, and sat beside his father.

"Hey, Dad? I just wanted you to know … I just wanted to tell you … I love you, Dad." He blew his breath out then; that was the easy thing to say. But the next thing had to be the truest thing he would ever say. And he didn't know if he had it in him to say it.

He leaned forward, his lips a breath away from his father's ear. He whispered, "I forgive you, Dad. For everything. I forgive you."

And in that moment, it was pure, blinding truth.

And in that moment, Lieutenant Don Flack Sr., decorated officer and legend of the New York Police Department, stopped breathing.

And no matter how long they waited this time, he would never take another breath.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY

"Are you sure you will be all right by yourself?" Kathleen fussed as Nasreen stepped out of the car, smiling patiently.

"Kathleen, another night with Miriam and you, and I may never move out. You have made me feel very welcome, but it has been three days. I am fine, and I need to be at home now." She turned to look at her house so that Kathleen would not see the naked longing on her face. She had grown used to being on her own, and much as she loved her partners, they were used to being together. It was time and more than time to return to her own life.

"Call if you need anything," Miriam said briskly, pulling the small bag out of the car and carrying it up the stairs for her. "Don't worry, I'll keep Kathleen from driving you crazy, I promise. I suspect_all _the phones will magically need to be charged tonight, so call my work cell if you want us, okay?"

Co-conspirators, they grinned at each other before Miriam reached out and hugged Nasreen carefully. "Sleep well," she said as she ran back down the stairs to start the car and drive away before Kathleen could offer to help Nasreen settle in.

With a sigh of relief, Nasreen unlocked her door and leaned against it, looking with joy at her refuge from the world. The walls were painted a light cream, the hardwood floors were covered in rich carpets, and there was a lot of dark wood everywhere. It was warm and comfortable, and there was not a corner that was not welcoming and soothing.

At least, it seemed that way to Sheldon Hawkes when he rang the doorbell a few hours later. He had waited as long as he could, but his impatience finally drove him to her neighbourhood. He had found a market and perused the shelves looking for something suitable, finally settling on mint tea and honeyed almonds, which the storekeeper had assured him were a popular item. Just as he had been getting ready to pay, a flash of cheerful pink had caught his eye, and he had picked up a huge handful of peonies to add to his offerings.

"Ah, a wonderful choice, young man," the store keeper had said, rubbing his hands at the increasing sale on a quiet afternoon. "Did you know that the Victorians created an entire language of flowers based on Turkish folklore? It was called floriography – 'writing with flowers'. A young man would send a bouquet or a 'Persian Selam' to tell his young woman the things propriety would not allow him to say."

Hawkes had lifted an eyebrow. He knew, of course, that flowers had different meanings, but he had not realized it went much beyond the rose and perhaps the lilies. "And what does the peony signify?" he had asked.

The shopkeeper had swept his white hair back off his forehead as he gently took the flowers in long tapered fingers to wrap them in paper to keep them from dropping petals. "In Chinese, its name is _sho yu_: most beautiful. In floriography, it stands for shyness and beauty. It has healing properties and is used to ward off bad dreams and evil spirits." He had handed Hawkes his purchases with a smile. "I hope your young lady appreciates the gesture, sir."

An irrepressible grin had lit up Hawkes' face. "Have a good day," was all he said.

He walked briskly to Nasreen's house, carrying his gifts unselfconsciously, ringing her doorbell lightly when he arrived. And when she opened the door and he saw the smile blossom in her eyes first at the sight of him, he was warmed to the core of his being.

"Welcome home," he said quietly, handing her the flowers first.

"Thank you. You should not have, Sheldon." She lifted the flowers to her face and breathed in their sweet scent. "Come to the kitchen; I wish to put these in water."

He followed her through the hall into a bright kitchen at the back of the house. Like the clinic, it opened onto an unexpected garden, and Sheldon moved curiously to the window while Nasreen opened a cupboard and took out a tall square glass vase.

He laughed when he saw the multitudes of red stemmed plants just poking through the still hard ground near the back of the house, and turned to her mock-apologetically. "I feel rather as if I have brought coal to Newcastle."

She smiled back at him, her eyes sparkling mischievously, "Ah, but my peonies will not bloom for another several weeks. And in the meantime, I can enjoy yours!" She was cutting off the bottom of each stem, and within moments had achieved a carelessly lovely arrangement of the bright drooping blooms. She put the vase in the centre of the table and he handed her the tea and almonds as well.

"Tea, Sheldon? Not Persian coffee?" She smiled up at him and he swore he could feel his heart speed up.

"When you are ready for an outing, we'll go back to Fatima's and I'll ask her to read my fortune again. She certainly got the 'trouble for my friends' part right."

He sighed at the memory of Danny's eyes, lost and distant, as his mother had stormed out of his father's hospital room. She had left Danny to nod to the technicians and watch them remove his father from the machines that had kept him alive just long enough to witness the final withdrawal of the wife who had spent as much of the last three decades pushing him away as drawing close.

When the doctor finally looked up and told Danny his father was gone, it was Lindsay whose arms had gone around him, Lindsay who had led him from the room, Lindsay who had stayed with him while he filled out the endless paperwork around death.

"Sheldon?" Nasreen reached a hand out to him; she wished she knew a way to dispel the sorrow in his eyes.

He clasped her hand in his, and she stepped a little closer. Every thought fell from him, and he slowly lowered his head, watching her for any hint of fear or withdrawal.

Her breath stopped for a minute, then she allowed her other hand to rest on his chest, and she raised her face to meet his lips.

The first kiss they had shared had been a soft breeze of promise. This was a gale force wind of passion. All that had stood between them – the attraction, the hesitance, the sheer terror – was let loose in one glorious gust that blew everything out of their heads but need.

Her hands clenched tight against him; his hands moved possessively against her back, pulling her against him.

He could have stopped it, he thought later – could have pulled away, could have recovered his balance – until the moment that she whimpered under his mouth. Then he was lost, and he deepened the kiss slowly, coaxing her into relaxing and opening to him.

When months later, he tried to recreate the scene in his head, he could not remember who had moved first, how they had made it from the kitchen to the bedroom up a flight of curved stairs, whose shaking hand had been first to remove clothing and explore heated skin.

He did remember the moment she pulled off her headscarf, shaking long dark tresses over his bare skin. The moment she gasped, eyes blind and wondering, as he touched her. The moment their bodies fused together, creating one soul in two bodies. The moment that the world disappeared in a flash of light, dazzling them both.

He remembered falling asleep with her in his arms, and waking to feel her soft breathing against his chest in the night, and waking again in the early morning to see her rising above him, eyes sparkling with desire and mischief.

In the days when he could remember nothing else, he remembered her whisper against his neck, "_Toujours, mon amour. Je t'aimerai toujours."_


	57. Chapter 57:Scenes in a Graveyard

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY. Poetry not otherwise referenced is original._

_A/N: If I were to begin thanking people who have been instrumental in my writing this story, it would never end. So for this chapter, I will just thank the Wenches, all of them, for their unflagging faith in the Team. _

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

* * *

_**Memento Mori**_

_Remember, oh human, that you will die._

_That some day, you too will come to this,_

_Dust to dust, ashes to grave, _

_The end time was built into your very bones and blood._

_Before you were born, you had begun to die,_

_Breath by breath, you use up the gift of life._

_But before you join us here in this narrow bed that none avoid_

_Be sure to live._

_Wake each morning with joy for the day that awaits._

_When there are troubles, sorrows, fears before you,_

_Throw back your head and laugh._

_Feel the blood sing in your veins. _

_Breathe deep the air of freedom:_

_To do, to do not,_

_To choose a way that is your own._

_Death comes at the end,_

_Whether you cower in bed, _

_Fear draped like a blanket over your head,_

_Or stride through the day daring all that comes your way._

_So what life is there in fear?_

_Live, that death may be beloved companion_

_On life's journey from birth to grave._

* * *

**Chapter 57: Scenes in a Graveyard**

It should have been a bitterly cold day. There should have been sere leaves blowing among the headstones, the threat of snow in the dull and cloud-filled skies. It should have been a day full of ominous thunder or the far-off crackle of lightning in the sky.

Instead, it was a warm spring day, full of promise, too hot suddenly for full dress blues. Row on row of police officers – the young ones with the spit still on their boots, the old ones with the polish long worn off their badges – stood to attention in a mid-day sun unexpectedly and inappropriately cheery.

Don Flack stood staring at the coffin covered in floral tributes from all over the country, it seemed. Lieutenant Donald Flack Sr. had been the long arm of the law, touching men and women in places he had certainly never been interested in visiting: Seattle, San Francisco, Las Vegas, Miami, even Toronto and Calgary, where men and women who had been trained by him, or had attended a lecture by him, or had read his articles, had sent an acknowledgment. From where he stood, Don could see his own name on every envelope attached to a wreath or bouquet. He wondered numbly if, now that Don Flack Sr. was dead, he would lose the Junior from his name.

All the ceremony had been observed: the three volley salute fired by seven officers with shotguns positioned over the grave, the flag removed from the coffin and folded into a crisp triangle and handed to the widow, who clutched it to her chest, dry-eyed. The three sisters huddled, each holding the hand of a child, frozen into good behaviour by the silent weight of grief the adults carried with them. Husbands and fiancées and good friends "but-not-like-that, Mother" stood a step behind, uneasily supportive.

The priest, not Father Tony this time, but one of the older priests, the same age as his father, had spoken the final words over the grave:_Earth to earth,_ _ashes to ashes, dust to dust. _Don wondered with a spurt of dark humour why the hell they had paid so much for a hermetically sealed coffin if his father was supposed to end up as worm food anyway.

He had fallen into bed at night, asleep as soon as the covers were pulled over him. He had woken every morning for the past three days, bleary-eyed and confused, brain still fogged from the nightmares that plagued him through the dark hours: searching for something – something undone, something he had not completed.

Until this morning, this morning when he had woken with his arms and his heart equally full, her dark curls spread across his chest, head pillowed on his shoulder, one arm draped across him. He had blinked down at her peaceful form uncertainly. Perhaps he was still sleeping, and this was his reward for not having cracked up over the past few days.

She had stirred against him, stretching strained muscles. He had brushed her hair back out of her face and dropped a gentle kiss on her temple. No, that had felt real, if anything ever did. Her smile when she opened her eyes to look up at him before curling back against him had felt real as well.

As he had reveled in the feel of her against him, his cobwebby memory had finally caught him up with the events of the night before. She had followed him to his mother's where she had simply done practical things like make tea and coffee and find pen and paper when it was needed. The priests had met with the whole family to discuss the service at length, and Don had felt himself fraying at the edges as emotions welled and tempers had flared. And when he finally had excused himself quietly, Stella had taken his keys and driven him home, while he tried in vain to ignore the headache pounding through his eyes into the cavity between his ears.

Even now, he didn't know at what point she had decided to stay, but as he had stared down into bright green eyes, he had known this was the way he wanted to wake up every morning for the rest of his life.

A sharp breeze blew across his face, reminding him to stay focused for a few more minutes, until his father had been decently buried. He glanced around: Stella was standing beside him, uniform trim and looking sexier on her than it really ought. Across the circle from the family stood Mac Taylor, also in uniform, with Peyton Driscoll beside him. Sheldon Hawkes was behind them, dressed in a sombre dark grey suit whose dark hue did not match the restrained light in his eyes. Adam Ross, too, stood a little apart, the customary mischief in his face toned down in deference to the occasion.

Once the officers had broken ranks and began to file out of the cemetery, Flack turned to his mother, kissing her on the cheek and gently taking the flag from her reluctant hands, passing it on to his brother-in-law.

"We'll be back, Ma. We'll see you at the hall, okay?"

The Knights of Columbus hall, where every Flack celebration had taken place for three generations, had been a hotbed of activity for days: Don Flack Sr. would be going out on a wave of alcohol-fueled grief that would rival any wake held in New York City since his own father's.

Dora nodded and put one hand on her son's cheek. "As soon as you can, Donnie. We'll be there."

Flack wheeled around and moved swiftly in the opposite direction, away from the rest of the mourners, ignoring the annoyed look his sister Marie shot over her shoulder. As he moved, Stella, Mac, Peyton, Sheldon and Adam all swung into step behind him, along with a few other detectives and patrolmen who had worked with the crime scene investigators over the years: Kaile Maka and Jennifer Angell were right behind them, and even Gavin Moran had stepped up, no longer in uniform, but still moving with that easy swing that years of patrolling instill in a police officer.

It took them a few minutes: the cemetery was a large one, with neighbourhoods as distinct as any place in the city. But when they got to the graveside they were looking for, Flack was relieved to see they had arrived in time.

This crowd was small – no more than a dozen people at most. The priest was speaking a peculiar mixture of Italian, Latin, and English; some of the older women, dressed in black, wept softly as they held their rosaries in their gnarled hands. On one side of the grave stood Danny, his hand wrapped tightly in Lindsay's, wearing a decent black suit that made him look even paler than usual. Lindsay was watching him, paying little attention to the priest mumbling incomprehensibly. Behind her stood her brother, John, and a older couple, also hand in hand, whose likeness to their children announced their identities: Ted and Diane Monroe had been on a flight within four hours of Lindsay's phone call.

Over the coffin with its three small wreaths, Danny was watching Maureen Messer, who stood as tall and cold as the statue of an angel standing guard over a family plot a few feet away – not a mourning angel with broad comforting wings, but a martial angel with a sword held aloft, ready to do battle.

Without a word, the NYPD team flanked Danny, ranging behind him in a solid, comforting wall of blue and dark hues. Their coming swelled the number of mourners significantly, and when Don stood behind Danny, he could feel him visibly stand down, relaxing his defensive stance.

Maureen, on the other hand, went white, glaring at Mac as if she would strike him dead before her. He stood impassively beside Flack, as visible a sign of support for Danny as he could be, and stared back.

It was rather like watching a lava stream meet a glacier, thought Flack: Maureen slowed and steamed and cooled until she drooped slightly. The battle had been won without a shot fired.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY

Five days, they had had. Five days of laughter and sweet joy and loving that lasted for hours. Five days of cooking for her, of cleaning up with her, of caring for her.

He had come back to her place, drained and saddened, after supporting two of his friends now orphaned, now the older generation in their families. She had held him that night, offered him comfort that night, and he had seen visions of a life intertwined, when one could support the other, offer strength and passion and solace when needed, and accept it in turn.

And then, she had gone back to work, less than two weeks after her workplace had come down around her. And that night, he had called her on the phone, and left a message to say he had been called in to a crime scene that was going to keep him overtime. And the next day, when he came by her house, she was not there, and his messages left on her cell went unanswered, but she was busy, he knew: the rebuilding of the clinic was on-going and the whole community was coming together to re-create something which it now realized had helped define it.

And when it had been more than 36 hours, and he had not heard from her, and when he drove by her house again and saw the moving truck, he landed on Miriam and Kathleen's door, to be handed a white envelope with his name written across it in neat, precise writing, and a quiet place if he wanted to read it privately.

Numbly, he had thanked Kathleen, whose impulsive offer it had been, and whose wide eyes were filled with tears. He had avoided Miriam's sympathetic but grave look: she had warned him, he thought, despondent, and he had been so sure that he could win this one.

He turned and stumbled down the stairs. To read this, he needed to be alone. But not at home, he thought, or he would never be able to return without feeling this lost again. He drove aimlessly for several minutes, unconsciously returning to the neighbourhood that had changed his life in so many ways.

He found a parking space on the street, and, getting out, wandered for a few minutes, the letter burning in his pocket. When he finally paused in front of a dark little coffee-house, he knew what he had been looking for.

He walked in and sat down at the same table, smiling gravely at Fatima as she put down the tiny cup full of sweet, thick hot coffee in front of him. He did not take a sip immediately; instead, he held his breath and slowly, carefully, with an almost surgical precision, opened the envelope and lifted the fine sheet of white paper to his nose, closing his eyes and breathing her in.

Carnations and peonies and the fragrant bitterness of the coffee – scents he would never be able separate again.

He opened the letter, folded precisely in half with a sharp crease, and willed his sight to stay clear, not to blur.

_My dearest Sheldon,_

_I call you that because it is true. I love you. How cold and empty that looks on the page. How hard it sounds in English. _من عاشقت هستم :_in Farsi, I would say man asheqet hastam. In French, I would say Je t'aime or even Je t'adore. And all of those statements would mean more to me than they ever could to you._

_I could speak to you in the language of my home, and you would not understand. I could speak to you in the language of my childhood, and you would not understand. And the language of your home, of your childhood, is stiff and ugly on my tongue. _

_I could try to fit in to your world, as I know you would try to fit into mine. And every step we took towards understanding each other would be a risk._

_I am afraid. I must admit it, must face it, must hear myself say it before I hear it from you. I am too afraid to risk myself again. You know I loved Amir. You know how he died and how that hurt me. I know you will believe that you understand what my fears are this time._

_My family and my religion both agree this is wrong, that you and I must not be together. And yet, everything in me cries out that they are wrong. This feeling I have for you must be right._

_I am sorry, Sheldon. Sorry that I do not have the courage that I need to prove them wrong: my family and my faith. Sorry that I cannot match your love with the courage it deserves. _

_Please do not hate me. I need to go home, to find myself again. There has been no peace for me for so long. Only in you. I found it only in you._

_Je t'aime, mon amour. Je vous aimerai tandis que j'ai le souffle dans mon corps._

_Nasreen_

He sat still, in the dark corner he had chosen. The men who filled the coffee-house kept their eyes averted: he was a stranger here, not unwelcome, but not accepted either. He simply filled a space that would be more comfortably filled by someone else.

He lifted the tiny cup to his lips, sipping the bittersweet brew Fatima had given him. "Love should be black as the devil and sweet as love." Who had said that? He searched through his capacious memory for the correct quote, for who had said it and when, willing himself to avoid thinking about the letter, the words which burned into him. He could feel the pain Nasreen had been in as she wrote, and it was nothing to the pain he felt as he read.

Fatima was standing beside him as he finished his coffee, a hopeful smile on her face. He smiled and gestured to her to sit down. She sat and lifted his cup in both hands, covering it with the saucer and then carefully swirling the dregs of his coffee three times clock-wise. She gently placed it on the table again, and then stared intently into the cup as the grounds settled.

After a moment, she looked around her impatiently, and called out a name, "Laila!" A young girl came from the back of the room, her slightly impatient look smoothing out when she saw Hawkes.

"My aunt would like me to interpret for her, if that is alright, sir?" She smiled, her dark eyes filled with laughter, inviting him to join her in gentle ridicule.

Fatima grabbed her hand and began to talk rapidly, stopping every few moments to make sure Laila understood.

"Okay, okay, Auntie." Laila turned to Hawkes, rolling her eyes slightly as she began to recite what the older woman had said in rolling Farsi. "She would like me to tell you that you have had bad news…"

Hawkes looked down at the letter on the table. No prize for guessing that, he thought.

Fatima spoke again, pushing Laila on the shoulder, urging her to go on.

"Yes, Auntie. She says your bad news will change – see this here? It is a bird, a large bird, perhaps an eagle. It means that things will get better."

Fatima spoke again, pointing to a symbol even Hawkes could see looked like a tiny heart, very close to the rim.

"Auntie says there is faith here," Laila pointed to the symbol, "Love and trust. It is a long way away – in the future," she stopped and listened to her aunt again, puzzled, "But in the present too?" She spoke a few words to Fatima, and then shook her head in confusion.

"I'm sorry, sir. My aunt says that love is present, but hidden in the future? I don't quite understand what she is talking about."

Hawkes stood and smiled at the two women, the young one a little embarrassed, a little annoyed, the older one, serious and worried. "Tell your aunt thank you for everything. I understand what she is telling me."

He placed some money on the table, more than was needed, and picked up the letter. He could hear Nasreen's laughing voice in his head:_"She'll promise you love and wealth and many children, all boys. She always promises love and wealth and boys."_

"It sounds good to me, my love," he thought in a spurt of self-pitying anger. "Love and wealth and many children. Sounds good to me."


	58. Chapter 58: The Road Goes On

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY. Poetry not otherwise referenced is original._

_A/N: So many people have supported and responded to this story – I could never thank you all. But for this chapter, I would like to especially thank chocobetty, mabelreid, melissasouza, and mel60, a few of my first contacts in ff world. Support from you all has kept me on this road!_

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

* * *

_**Journey's Halt**_

_Journeys end in lovers' meeting_

_And stories end in "happy ever after"_

_Through winter's blast and springtime's hope_

_With heart warm love and friendship's laughter. _

_The road was long and oft times hard_

_And sometimes doubt was in the lead_

_But comrades all stood side to side_

_And fortified each one in need._

_For roads are meant to be traveled on_

_And homes are meant for peace and kin_

_And those we are born to are with us forever_

_But those we choose we may find rest in._

_And the end of one story signals true_

_Another story must begin anew._

_SMT2007_

* * *

**Chapter 58: The Road Goes On**

"Will you be okay, Linds?" Diane stood at the gate, holding her daughter tightly.

Lindsay nodded briskly, "I'm always okay, Mom. You know that. Eventually, anyway."

"And Danny?" Diane couldn't help it; her eyes scanned the crowd one more time.

"He'll be okay too, Mom. It was just overwhelming, the whole thing. Every terrible secret his family had kept, just spilled out for everyone to see. He needs some time to work it all out."

Lindsay's eyes were tired, but when Diane looked into them, the shadows that had darkened them for so long were gone. She had let go of her ghosts, her mother thought, and seemed not to have simply picked up Danny's, as Diane had expected.

A voice crackled over the intercom, "_Last call for Flight 204 to Bozeman. All passengers should be in the loading area, please."_

Ted put a hand on Diane's shoulder, "Come on, lady, time to go. You've seen her apartment, done some shopping, and checked out the people she works with. She's doing fine, aren't you, Peanut?" He chucked Lindsay under the chin as Diane reluctantly let go and glanced around the waiting room one last time.

Lindsay smiled up at her father and hugged him tightly, "I am doing fine, Dad. I promise. No matter what happens. I'm Montanan-bred and Monroe-tough."

He laughed and squeezed her back, holding her until she protested laughingly that he was going to break her ribs. Diane had already turned to get in line, pulling her picture ID and boarding pass from the knapsack slung over her shoulder like a student, when she heard a voice from down the hall.

"Hey! Ted, Diane! Wait a sec!"

He was still tired-looking, even frailer than when she had broken him out of the hospital in Bozeman. But the grin that split his face was less troubled, and when she reached out to hug him, he hugged back with a whole heart. He reached out to shake Ted's hand as a flight attendant came bustling over, a flight manifest in her hand.

"Are you the Monroes? You must get through security and on the flight quickly, please. You are the only ones left not in the secured area."

Diane hugged Lindsay one last time, and started to follow the officious airline worker. She hesitated a moment, then quickly turned back and kissed Danny on the cheek, whispering something into his ear which made him flush up before running down the hallway indicated, followed by her grinning husband who kept turning around to wave and call out advice to Lindsay.

Lindsay waved as long as she could see her parents being decanted through the glassed-in hallways of the airport, then turned to Danny with a smile.

"You cut that a little fine." She wrapped her hand around his.

"I got caught in traffic. I should have known better than to believe the traffic report on the radio – about as much use as the weather report," he grumbled.

She laughed and ran a hand down his still-reddened cheek. "So what did my mother say to you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Don't try bluffing, Danny. I can read your tells without even looking at you." Her voice was determinedly light.

He sighed and put an arm over her shoulder, coaxing her towards the exit. "I'll tell you. I will. Just … can we get out of here first?"

She nodded and bit her lip, looking down so he wouldn't see her.

They had spent time together, of course. She had been with him when his father had died, had stayed with him through the whole ugly process. She had stood between him and his mother on more than one occasion as details were worked out in rapid-fire exchanges between Danny and Maureen in bitter English, between Maureen and the priest in broken Italian, between Danny and the priest in more conciliatory and formal phrases in any language which seemed to fit.

When Gino Messer's wife had shown up, looking for Nikki and some measure of retribution, when other members of the family had shown up to point fingers and lay blame, Lindsay had stood by him – soothing when needed, mediating when possible, and sometimes, especially late at night, simply holding him until he went to sleep.

When her parents had shown up, she had still managed to be with Danny as much as possible. John had been in charge of sight-seeing, although Lindsay had taken them one day to meet the team. Stella and Diane had hit it off as soon as Stella had taken her shopping. The men had bonded quickly over guns and games. Even Adam had lit up like a Christmas tree when Diane had revealed her Second Life avatar and played him to a standstill in one of the logic games.

But in all the time Danny and she had spent together in the past week, they had managed not one single meal alone, not one single peaceful hour to just talk.

Not one single intimate moment beyond a kiss goodbye or hello when they had spent some time apart.

Lindsay knew it was shallow, but she missed the touch of him, the flavour of his kisses. She missed the light in his eyes when he looked at her, the heat of his hands tracing her body.

She sighed a little as they moved out into the warm sunshine. New York had finally accepted Spring without reservation, and everywhere she looked, she could see the earth coming to life. Flowers had begun to bloom, not just in the formal gardens, but unexpected snowdrops tucked in under trees, and small anarchistic crocuses and daffodils scattered across green lawns. As she climbed into Danny's car, she wished for a moment with no problems, no issues, no disturbance to the peace she could feel her heart reaching out for.

Danny drove quickly and competently back into the city, saying very little. He seemed to be thinking through something; every so often he would frown and mutter under his breath. Lindsay assumed it was mostly traffic related – like most New Yorkers, Danny seemed to take cars on his road as a personal insult.

She closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep, not wanting Danny to feel that he had to talk to her. It was only a pretense for a few minutes, though; endless nights of worry and nightmares finally caught up to her, and she did not awake until the car stopped and she felt Danny's hand on her shoulder.

"Montana? Hey! Montana? You going wake up for me?" His voice was soft, as if he didn't want to disturb her.

Her eyes fluttered open, and she sucked in her breath; he was leaning over her, his mouth so close she could feel the air move over her lips as he spoke.

Without thought, she put one hand behind his head and pulled him close. The kiss, which started off sweet and tender, quickly deepened to something else, and Lindsay's heart leapt when she felt the throbbing of his pulse under her hand. When she opened her mouth to his insistent exploring tongue, she could hear a pounding in her head: _He loves me. He still loves me._

"Lindsay." He pulled away gently, his breath now coming in short gasps. "Linds, we need to talk."

She closed her eyes and shook her head, a little violently. "No. We don't. Danny, we don't need to talk. Let's just … keep things going like this. There's nothing to talk about."

He released her seatbelt, and opened his door. Quickly, he ran to her side of the car and had the door open and one hand out to her before she could do more than shake her head again.

"Walk with me, okay Linds?" His eyes were begging her – for understanding? For forgiveness?

She stepped out of the car, and followed him into the park where he had stopped. They did not speak as they moved down the path. He waited until they were standing beside the small, scummy duck pond, still covered with fall leaves clogging up the streams whose circulation should have helped keep the water clear. The few ducks that had returned from their trip up North were fat and complacent, quacking scornfully when they saw the intruders had brought no offerings of stale bread or popcorn to placate them. Waddling stiffly, they plopped in to the water, showing their bottoms in disdain as they siphoned food off the bottom of the pond.

Danny sat down at a small tottery bench, and gestured to Lindsay to join him. Her heart stuttering, she did so. He pointed down – on the bench she could see a name and date carved into the wood: _Louie 1982_.

"We used to come here. Weekends. After-school. My mother," his lips tightened on the word, "My mother was not always safe for us to be around. My _nonna_ liked the bus. She would get on and travel around the city for hours. The drivers mostly knew her and made sure she got home okay. Sometimes she'd take us with her." He sighed, his arms crossed over his chest as if he were hurting.

Lindsay sat quietly.

"We'd come and feed the ducks. _Nonna_ would save bread and we'd bring it with us, every week. Louie stopped coming with us when he was about 12 – he started hanging out with different kids about then. I kept coming, though. _Nonna_was getting slower – she wasn't well even then. I was afraid."

He leaned forward, his arms on his legs, head hanging. "I was afraid she would die on the bus, or out here. I don't know what I thought I could do."

Lindsay wanted to touch him, to let him know she was there, but didn't dare. He was wrapped in memories, nightmares dancing in his eyes.

"She was really sick, but my mother wouldn't let me go for the doctor. She died in her bed, in the little room in the back of the apartment, alone. I came home from school and she was gone. My mother …" his voice broke, then rallied, "My mother was so drunk. She had passed out in the living room in front of the television."

He stopped again, breathing hard.

"I hear her in my head. My mother. Her voice. Telling me I am useless, cursed. Waking. Sleeping. It doesn't matter. She's always there."

He sat back and looked at the ducks again.

"I don't have anyone left. My family is dead or scattered … or … doesn't want me anymore."

Tears leaked down Lindsay's cheeks. She could hear the pain in his voice, and longed to take it away. But what could she say that would not be unbearably trite and useless?

"My mother…" his voice broke, but after a painful moment, he rallied and started again, "Whatever else she did, Lindsay, she is my mother. And I can't just walk away from her."

Lindsay turned to him then. "Of course you can't, Danny! You are all she has left. You need to do what you can, what she'll let you do. I just hope it doesn't…." _tear you to pieces_, she wanted to say, but stopped.

Danny shrugged. "She's my mother."

That was all, Lindsay knew; that was really the beginning and the end for him.

He reached for her hand, twining it in his. "Your mother. Diane. At the airport …"

Lindsay stiffened a little. Diane Monroe, for all her very good qualities, sometimes displayed the tact of a sledgehammer.

"She told me to take care of you." Danny looked up at her, misery warring with fear in his eyes. "Lindsay," he said in a whisper, "I can barely take care of myself right now. I want so much more for you – you deserve so much better…"

Lindsay couldn't help it. She laughed, then cupped Danny's shocked face in her hands and kissed him, her warm, loving, passionate mouth stealing his fear along with his breath. She did not stop until she felt him relax under her, until she felt the tension leave his body, to be replaced with an awareness that had been missing for days.

In that kiss were all the words they could not say, all the forgiveness they had no right to ask for, all the peace they could offer to each other.

She finally rested her forehead against his. "My mother told you to look after me?"

He nodded, a little bubble of laughter beginning to fight its way up his throat.

"And you wouldn't want to go against my mother, would you? I mean, I still have three very big brothers for you to worry about." Her voice, warm and teasing, crept around him like warm honey.

He shuddered dramatically, then confessed, "I forgot about them. I guess I have to keep you unless I want the snot beaten out of me, huh?"

She snuggled against him, "Uh-huh. Sorry about that. But we can try it this way, okay?" She looked into his eyes seriously, "You look after me all you can. And I'll look after you all I want. And together, we'll make sure that we are all okay. And that includes your mother."

He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her onto his lap and resting his head on top of hers. Content, she laid her head against his chest, listening to his steady heartbeat.

When the sun began to tip over the horizon, they were still there, holding each other against what ever the world might throw at them next. No matter what happened, they would face it together.


	59. Chapter 59: Epilogue

_Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY. Poetry not otherwise referenced is original._

_A/N: Special thanks to Prefect Rachel: for the gift of Natalie Chance, for the beta on scenes with Reed and her, but mostly for coming on this long journey every step of the way with me – over 11 months from start to finish. _

_Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night"._

* * *

_**As it was in the Beginning**_

_Beginnings end and ends begin_

_And through the day the world will spin,_

_And when you think the journey's done_

_You wake and find it's just begun._

_But day turns dusk and night turns morn,_

_And life is over and death is born._

_And every time we say goodbye_

_We learn of infinite ways to cry._

_But life's long voyage never ends_

_As long as we travel with our friends._

* * *

Epilogue

It took six months. Who knew it could take so long?

It was a simple thing, a statue made of soft golden stone, quarried somewhere far away, brought in only seldom, the stonemason had told him, because it was so expensive to transport. But as soon as he had seen it, he had known it was right. Claire would have loved the colour – a shade which almost matched her own fair curls – and would have run her hands appreciatively over the soft curves of the carved stone that seemed to welcome the touch.

The stonemason had shown Mac several samples of his work, from cherubs measuring a hand's length to a soldier mounted on a rearing steed twice as tall as a man. But only one caught his eye; only one called out her name. An angel, kneeling with hands folded, wings enclosing it in a space of peace and tranquility. And yet, the head was not bowed, the face not simpering in unconvincing piety. This angel looked up at the heavens, sternly, requiring of God His mercy and His grace, rather than meekly waiting for it to rain down upon the earth. Mac thought Claire, with her fierce devotion to the truth and to what was right, would have appreciated the distinction.

He had made the choice alone, discussing the details like the size of the plaque and the font, choosing the words which would immortalize a person whose mortal remains had never been found, who had truly returned to the earth in an explosion of fear and pain but, Mac prayed, in the knowledge that everything real about her, everything significant, would live on.

He had done all that alone, because he had to. But now, when the memorial had been installed, when the ground had had time to recover, when the rose bush he had planted was putting out its final brave display of blossom before sleeping for the winter, now it was time to share this space, this remembrance, with some of the people who had become important in his life.

He had phoned, inviting the young couple for lunch. They had all met at the restaurant: Reed confident and secure again, even more determined to be a journalist and uncover the truth from the lies surrounding him; Natalie, a little wary still, but mostly recovered from her frightening experience, although the young man who had kidnapped her had never been found; and Peyton, who had nearly succeeded in begging off when she found out why Mac wanted them all to share a meal.

He had stood firm though, standing in his kitchen, filling the fine bone china teapot he had bought her, warming it carefully with hot water. She was a part of his life in every way now, he had said resolutely, and he needed her to be with him at this most important and personal ceremony. With a sigh, she had given in, though Mac could see the glimmer of doubt still in her eyes.

Lunch had been filled with conversation and laughter, and Mac did not want to cast a shadow by bringing up his purpose. Peyton had remained quiet as well, perhaps hoping he had changed his mind. He waited until the meal was over, and the conversation was dying down, before clearing his throat.

"Reed? Do you remember, after the funeral for Brian Miller? Do you remember what you asked me?"

Reed looked at him, a little startled at the husky tone, but nodding thoughtfully. "I asked where my mother's grave was. I wanted to visit it, to … I don't know … connect with her in some way, I suppose."

"Would you come with me to the cemetery? Today?"

Reed swallowed and nodded. The look in Mac's eyes – the look in Peyton's – told him this was no whim.

They were quiet on the drive, each one wrapped in thought. Reed was uncertain how he felt; he had wanted this, months ago now, it was true. He had wanted something tangible to hold onto, some image of his mother that he could carry with him. But now he had that; it was Mac himself, the man his mother had loved, the man who had saved both him and Natalie. Reed was not sure he needed anything else, wanted anything else. This, this feeling of gratitude and closeness, was gift and burden enough.

When they arrived at the graveyard, Mac parked the car and led the other three towards the afternoon sun. It was a long walk, and at one point, Reed wondered whether Mac had lost his way. They were climbing a small hill, and Reed held Natalie's hand as Mac reached the top and slowed. He stopped, and put one arm around Peyton before pointing.

"There."

It shone in the sun's rays, a deep glow like the centre of a candle flame. Reed walked slowly towards it, his hand still clasped in Natalie's.

The angel stared earnestly at the heavens, and Reed heard an echo from his childhood: "The Angel of the Lord said, Fear Not!" For the first time, he understood what his first year English teacher had meant about the word 'awful', meaning 'filled with a holy terror.' This was an angel who inspired belief.

Natalie tugged on his hand, and pointed to the plaque:

_Claire Conrad Taylor_

_February 15, 1965 – September 11, 2001_

_Mother and Wife_

_Remembered and Loved Always_

"_See, I have carved you on the palm of my hand"_

_Isaiah 49:16 _

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY

Stella let herself in with the key he had given her weeks ago now. They still had their own apartments, their own lives. They had kept things as much as possible the way they had always been at work: a close working relationship that included some teasing banter when no one else was around, and conversational leaps that sometimes left other people gaping as they ended each other's sentences. Friends knew they were together, but there had been no attention drawn to it, no adverse effects on their jobs.

Their personal lives, though, had undergone a radical shift. They kept paying rent on two apartments mostly for show and storage, she thought with a mental grin; there was no way all her stuff would fit into his place, and there was little room for him in hers. There had been a slow leak from one place to another, though: her work clothes and work clothes were showing up in his cupboards, and in the drawers he had cleaned out for her. His good suits, not tailored for running after perps, and expensive shirts and ties were filling up one side of her already crowded closet. Bathrooms both had a full panoply of care products: everything from dual toothbrushes to the expensive conditioner he knew was completely out of bounds, no matter what.

The private grin spread – every so often, when work had kept them from each other, Don would show up somewhere smelling of her, and she would be filled with a secret glee even as she scolded him for wasting her personal extravagance.

She dropped the grocery bag gently on the counter, and hummed softly as she began to cut up tomatoes and peppers for a pasta sauce. Don had been on a 24 hour shift – a case had gone horribly wrong, and what should have been another simple domestic dispute had turned first into a hostage situation and then into a shooting spree resulting in four dead family members and two wounded officers. He was, she hoped, still sleeping it off, with luck without the nightmares.

By the time the spaghetti sauce was merrily bubbling, and she had stripped off the work clothes and some of the work tension, she was starting to worry. Usually, he was awake as soon as she slid her key into the lock, certainly by the time she was slicing up onions and garlic. She had been home for nearly an hour and had not heard a sound from the bedroom.

Quietly, she went to the bedroom door and stood for a moment, listening intently. She couldn't hear anything, and so she stepped into the room, searching it quickly.

The bed was empty, but she could see him standing at the window, dressed in jeans and t-shirt, looking like a college kid. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, staring down into the street.

"Don? You okay?"

He turned to her, eyes dark with remembered nightmares, but smiled and reached out a hand to her, pulling her close against him. "Hmm. You been home long?"

"A while. Dinner will be ready in about 15." She wrapped her arms around his waist, breathing him in. "What are you doing?"

"Thinking."

"What are you thinking about?" She could play this game too.

He turned to her, pushing her hair out of her face gently, wrapping his hands around her cheeks and looking into her eyes. "Are you happy, Stel?"

"Happy?" she repeated, wondering where this was going. "Yes, I think so. A little more down time and fewer corpses would be good. But otherwise, yes, I guess so."

He didn't smile at her feeble joke, just continued to stroke her skin with his thumbs and gaze as if he were trying to read something she wasn't sure was in her to be seen.

"Happy with us, I mean. Like this." He indicated the room vaguely.

"Us? We're good, Don. Everything is good." She closed her eyes a moment, then said quietly, "Isn't it? Good, I mean, with us?"

"Don't you want more? Aren't you waiting for … I don't know. The next step?" He stepped away from her and looked out the window again.

Stella followed his gaze. It was early evening, with fall colours just beginning to show, the dying sunlight burnishing every tree in golden light. There were people on the street: men walking quickly with briefcases, heading home, women swinging along in the shoes they kept for the commute, children on bikes and skateboards weaving in and out of the crowds, people pushing strollers and holding hands with laughing children in brightly coloured gumboots.

"I'm happy as we are."

He leaned against the wall again, an arm's length, a generation's length away. "Don't you want … I don't know. A family? Kids? Something more than work and death and shit every day?"

Stella took a deep breath. She had not not prepared for this, and she had to get it right, she knew. She only had one chance to bring this around the right way.

"I love you. I like my job, except for the dumpsters." She waited hopefully, but he gave not a flicker of a smile. She sighed and sat on the bed, crossing her legs under her. "I love you, Don. Whatever happens next happens. I'm not in a rush."

He looked down at his feet, arms wrapped protectively around himself.

"Who's been talking to you?"

He snorted, the first glimmer of humour she had seen. "What makes you think …" he paused when she raised one eyebrow, "Oh, all right. My mother phoned."

"When you were sleeping?"

"I wasn't sleeping."

The terse statement made her flinch. She had held him through enough nightmares in the past six months to know what he wasn't saying. She reached out a hand, waiting until he reluctantly took it and sat beside her on the bed. She put one hand on his cheek. "Don, your mother wants you to be happy. I know that. But you and I have to find our own way. If this is just your mom's anxiety, then we can deal with that."

She would deal with it, she thought grimly. Dora Flack's need for more grandchildren could be held in check.

He ran his hands through his hair uncertainly, but when he tensed to stand up, she pulled him back to her.

"If you want more, want children, want the white picket fence, we can talk about it. We have time."

"Maybe not. We both have dangerous jobs, Stel. Shit happens. Maybe we don't have very much time at all."

She looked into deep blue eyes stricken with doubt and frustration. "Shit will happen. And no matter where we are in our life, it will be too soon, too late, too little, too much. So we deal with right now – today. I am happy with what we have right now – today. If you want more, talk to me. Tell me."

"I want you to be happy."

She pulled him closer, dropping a kiss first high on one cheekbone, then the other. Her lips wandered over his skin slowly, her hands on his shoulders, waiting for the moment when the muscles under her hands relaxed, thrilling when his arms came around her, wrapped around her hips, pulled her over him. She settled on his lap with a purr of satisfaction when his mouth opened on hers.

"How long did you say that tomato sauce would take?" he whispered in her ear.

"It gets better the longer it simmers." She smiled against his mouth.

"Good," he growled, and she was under him and on top of the world.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY

Hawkes was sitting at his computer, straining to see the results. He had taken out his contacts hours earlier, and was now relying on the thick glasses that felt heavy on his nose by this time of night. But Mac needed the information these tests could provide, and the whole team needed this latest case solved and off the books.

He yawned, rubbing his eyes once more. It had been a tough case – the last of several cases that the team had worked in the past few months. Flack and Danny had both been off for far less than their approved bereavement leaves – the pressure of work had pulled them both back to where they were able to work off their grief and anger. If at first, Flack had been a little more caustic, Danny a little more reckless, than before, they had both been taken up sharply by Stella and Lindsay, who seemed to know just how far to let the two young men go before firmly applying the brakes.

They were all working towards happiness. Hawkes was able to be glad about that.

Adam had floated around the lab for several weeks on a cloud of sexual satisfaction others could practically smell. Lindsay, thrilled to have gossip to share, had corroborated rumours of a tall gorgeous woman interested in the lab geek, and everyone had put up with Adam's absentmindedness good-naturedly. When it had finally burned itself out, Adam had seemed almost relieved, confiding to Hawkes that although the sex was amazing, he was constantly terrified that they would get caught – Aisha had not been joking about having worked nearly everywhere in New York City, he had said darkly.

Hawkes had begged him not to share any more details – the pictures in his head were quite vivid enough.

Hawkes himself had been seeing Lissa. They were good friends, he reminded himself, good friends with lots in common. If he sometimes smelled the ghost of carnation and peony, if he had stopped drinking coffee – well, that was a small price to pay for a little companionship and peace.

He rubbed his eyes again. Things were back on track, he told himself firmly. Everything was going as it should. He blinked, trying to focus on the words in front of him again.

He barely heard the _ping_ indicating a chat window had opened up, simply clicking on it automatically before glancing over to see who was on.

He froze. Then he rubbed his eyes, and looked again.

_Nsrn: Sheldon? Are you there?_

He reached for the keyboard, but could not type a word.

_Nsrn: Sheldon? If you are there, I wish you would answer._

He pushed the keyboard away this time, as if it were tempting him.

After a few minutes, the _ping _came again.

_Nsrn: I understand if you do not wish to speak to me. I hope you will at least read this, perhaps later, because I need you to know two things._

_Ping_

_Nsrn: The most important thing is that I love you. I said it before, I know. But I can say it now in English._

Hawkes rubbed his eyes again. Tired, he thought, crossly. Just tired.

_Nsrn: The second thing is that I am sorry. Sorry I hurt you. Sorry I left you. Sorry I did not contact you. _

Memories of standing in Miriam's front hall, Kathleen crying again as Miriam kindly but firmly refused to give him Nasreen's address or phone number. Shamefaced midnight Google searches: Dr. Nasreen Suq in Montreal, Quebec. Even once, and only once, a full-blown search at two in the morning from the lab's equipment, an action he regretted seven hours later and wiped off the system's memory.

_Nsrn: But I am not sorry that I met you. Or that I love you. I do not have the right to expect anything, but if you can forgive me, if you can speak to me again –_

He pulled the keyboard closer again.

_Nsrn: Sheldon. I just wanted you to know. _

His heart was beating so fast, he could feel it pound in his throat. His fingers hovered over the keyboard.

_Fin_

_AN2: And thus a universe ends. Thanks to all who journeyed with me:__ to everyone who has ever left a comment, put the story on alerts or favourites, or just read and enjoyed the trials and tribulations of Team Taylor. Your presence has affected the story in significant ways. My thanks to you all._


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